


Who Live By The Sword

by Jarad



Series: Pathbreaker [3]
Category: Wraeththu - Storm Constantine
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, Heavy BDSM, Other, Rape, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarad/pseuds/Jarad
Summary: Following a dramatic breakdown of the peaceful atmosphere of Shaa Lemul, Ponclast and Abrimel are brought back to the earthly realm. Deprived of the artificial serenity on which he had come to rely, Ponclast attempts suicide and is hospitalized in a luxury Gelaming facility. An expert care team oversees rehabilitation, lead by Sulh healers Gesaril and Jassenah, who share a fraught history with each other. Wraeththu leaders with their own dark pasts become invested in the project. Can even Ponclast, the living symbol of ultimate evil, be redeemed and healed?This work in progress takes place after the events of the two main trilogies and the Sulh sequence, so there are potential spoilers for everything.
Relationships: Jassenah/Gesaril, Manticker/Ponclast, Ponclast/Abrimel, Ponclast/Lianvis, Ponclast/Terzian
Series: Pathbreaker [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174013
Comments: 15
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

PONCLAST

A note, left on the pillow, where I should be—

> _“Abrimel,_
> 
> _I have ended it._
> 
> _Don’t go in the parlor. You are the only one who I would not wish to see me this way._
> 
> _May we meet again someday, somewhere, wherever comes next—but not soon, my love. Go on without me._
> 
> _-Ponclast”_

It was brief. I have never been sentimental. And I would not apologize.

***

The crossed swords hanging over the mantle were surely decorative, I thought. Imagine my surprise when, upon closer examination, I realized they were genuine Varrish blades. War trophies. I was amazed that my captors would leave edged weapons within my reach, but perhaps I should not have been. They were Gelaming. They thought themselves too powerful to be threatened by such trifling things as swords. There were guards posted outside my suite, whose psychic and magical abilities were far more potent than steel. There were listeners scanning my mind. They were confident that they would know, even before I did, if I was planning an escape. I would not be leaving these rooms.

And within these rooms? Why, there was only Abrimel and myself. Perhaps they didn’t really care if either of us got butchered.

 _Well,_ I thought _, let’s find out._

I had to act quickly. Having retrieved the sword, I locked myself in the parlor, and barricaded the door with a heavy desk. That would scarcely slow the Gelaming down, but I planned to make every second count.

The sword had gone a bit dull, but I had the whetstone from the kitchen and years of long practice. It was easy to make it take an edge again. And then, there was only one thing left to do.

I shed my robes, and lay down naked on the chaise, the sword in my hand. I looked at it, its cruel length, and for the first time, allowed myself to wonder whether I had the fortitude for this. I had never tried to hurt myself before. Always my pain had been taken out on others. Self-destruction was for the weak. I still thought so, but I could stoop to it to make a statement.

I had to do it, and I had to do it in the manner I had planned. My pride demanded it. There was no way I could return the sword to its place over the mantle, sneak back to bed, and make the damning note disappear before my chesnari was any the wiser. It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world for somehar else, but it wasn’t my style. I’ve never been good at backing down.

So I shut my eyes, and drew in a deep breath, gathering my strength, compacting my will. That was all the hesitation I allowed myself.

I opened my eyes, spread my legs, and aimed the sword. I was already soume. My body knew what had to be done, and even seemed to welcome it—just like that other time.

It hurt. Of course I expected that. But it was familiar pain. Worse than before, naturally, but familiar in essence. Clenching my teeth, I guided the sword deeper. My head was already swimming from blood loss. Perhaps this would be over quickly. I certainly hoped so.

I needed them to find me like this. If it ended any other way, they’d merely smirk and feel satisfied. Cut my wrists, slit my throat, take poison, hang myself, jump… none of that would surprise anyhar, or make them anything but happy. This, _this…_ it would make them wonder. They’d feel disgusted and horrified when they heard how I did it. They’d conclude that I must be even more perverted than they’d thought, and try to dismiss it at that. But I have an instinct for atrocity. Atrocity is an art, like rhetoric. Atrocity speaks. And this one was my way of saying: _You don’t know the whole story._

Commotion outside the room. It seemed that the Gelaming did care if I gutted myself. My time was almost up. I hooked my ankles behind the hilt, as if around the hips of a lover, and used it to pull the blade deeper into my sheath. I was getting weaker. This was a problem. I didn’t think it had gone deep enough—

The door exploded from its hinges. The heavy desk flew across the room and smashed a glass coffee table. A gaggle of Gelaming poured in following the telekinetic blast. I opened my eyes a slit and gazed at them through the dark whorls that were taking over my vision. They had seen. I’d wanted to be found with the sword inside me, preferably already dead—but if the blade was drawn forth, I might bleed out faster. With the last of my strength, put my feet on the hilt and pushed it out. Blood poured from me like the waters of soume. I laughed weakly at the faces of the horrified Gelaming.

And then I heard Abrimel scream. He was by my side before they could stop him, hands pressed between my legs as if he could staunch the flow. Of course, the wounds were internal. He couldn’t save me that way.

My fist clenched and weakly pounded on the chaise.

“Fuck you,” I croaked, “Why can’t you obey?”

He did not answer. He was sobbing wildly, in breaths that sounded like they were ripped from him with hooks. The Gelaming pulled him away from me, murmuring cold comforts. I saw a hypo in somehar’s hand, and knew that quite soon I would be rendered helpless. I had failed. The only thing I had accomplished was to break my chesnari’s heart. He was the only har I’d never wanted to hurt, and now, I’d quite possibly destroyed him.

One of the Gelaming rolled up his sleeve to the elbow. Agmara energy hummed along his arm. I could practically see it.

“Stick him,” he said to the har with the hypo, and I knew what they were about to do. He was going to heal me from the inside in the only way he could. I was vaguely surprised he didn’t use his ouana-lim. That would channel the energy more effectively. Probably I was simply too repulsive.

“This is pelki,” I murmured weakly, as the needle thrust into my neck.

“Shut up,” said the har with the bared arm, “It’s the only way I can save your life.”

“I know,” I mumbled, “That’s the pelki.”

And then I felt my eyes roll back and I knew no more.

***

When I woke, I immediately knew I was in an institution.

Gelaming institutions never look institutional. No cold white walls here. No hard, narrow beds. No smell of antiseptic. They know that such surroundings are hardly conducive to healing. They surround the sick with beauty and softness. When I opened my eyes I saw soft colors, soothing landscape paintings, and a truly absurd number of crystals, chosen, doubtless, for their healing properties. I smelled incense. This is what an institution is now. It all hit me just the same as the white walls would have.

I was restrained—very effectively, too. Simple wrist and ankle ties wouldn’t have been enough to stop me from hurting myself with squirming. I thought of Cato the Younger, an ancient human whose suicide attempt was interrupted. They stitched him up but as soon as they left him alone, he tore out the stitches and disemboweled himself with his bare hands. The Gelaming must have read about Cato the Younger too. I was held down gently but firmly with a multitude of padded straps that made it nearly impossible to move a muscle below the neck. I could lift my head a little and gaze down at my body, to see how effectively I was bound, but that was all. My legs were held slightly apart. I became aware that something was shoved inside me. A roll of bandages wrapped around a hard core. Knowing the Gelaming, it was probably a fucking quartz point. There was a catheter, too, and yes, a bedpan. By the smell, or lack thereof, it had been changed recently.

 _By Ag,_ I thought, _if I had somehar trussed up and stuffed like this, it’d be a war crime. But when the Gelaming do it to me, they call it mercy._

I allowed my head drop back upon the pillow. This was the worst indignity I had ever suffered, and there was nothing I could do about it. The only way to endure would be to simply not think about it too much. But in my current position, there was little I could do to distract myself.

I would not yell. I would not curse. I would not cry. I could not give them that satisfaction. I clenched my jaw and tried to draw strength up from the core of me, that dark heart of molten hatred that had sustained me all these years. But my center was no longer so black and hot as it once had been. I could barely find it at all.

The door opened silently. In walked the very last har I wanted to see.

“Pellaz,” I said, without tone.

His eyes were puffy. He’d been crying. A naïve har might have been touched. I was not naïve, and I knew he was not crying for me, not really. He was crying because what I did was upsetting. No normal har could hear about it without agitation.

“Ponclast,” he said, and sadly shook his head.

He was resplendent, as always. His robes were of gold silk, which perfectly complimented the undertone of his equally silky skin, and brought out the bright motes in his deep eyes. He sat down in a chair beside my bed.

“By all means,” I said sarcastically, “Come in. Make yourself at home.”

I was being petulant. It was beneath me, and him. He ignored it.

“Are you in pain?” he asked me.

I realized I wasn’t. “Can’t feel a thing,” I replied.

He nodded, his face serious. “That’s good. The healers have been working overtime on you for nearly seventy-two hours. You’ve had the best of care.”

Such largesse, towards me, who deserved it least. I supposed I was meant to be humbled. I didn’t dignify this with a response.

“Where is Abrimel?” I demanded. It was the only question I cared about.

Pellaz sighed deeply. “Close by. He is being treated in this very facility. Not for physical injuries,” he added quickly, seeing me jerk in my bonds. “Emotional shock. I’m afraid he’s not ready to see you yet.”

He wouldn’t be. I wasn’t angry with him. The healers wouldn’t let him see me even if he did ask, and they would be quite right to refuse him. An endless sadness sank into my bones. “I regret that he saw that.”

“Why did you do it?” Pellaz leaned towards me, his hands tented, his lovely brow furrowed. His hair fell forward over his shoulders, and I caught its scent: myrrh and sandalwood, with just a hint of jasmine.

“Why didn’t you let me?” I countered.

He looked down at his hands. “I couldn’t. It would’ve been selfish.”

I laughed harshly, and for the first time, felt a tiny twinge of pain in my abdomen. “It was selfish to keep me alive. Let’s not kid around, Pellaz. Not between us. We both know what this is about.” Half-delirious, I paraphrased: “The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven. It blesseth him that gives and him that takes—in this case, mainly him that gives. It is mightiest in the mightiest—it becomes the throned Tigron better than his crown…” I trailed off, winded.

Pellaz was shaking his head, his eyes baffled. “What are you talking about?”

I sneered. “Surely the Tigron is familiar with the works of William Shakespeare?”

“I was,” Pellaz acknowledged. “I haven’t thought about him for almost a century.” For a moment he looked wistful, remembering a childhood education. There’d been a priest, I’d heard, perhaps a Jesuit. He’d have exposed Pellaz to the classics. “I suppose recently you’ve had a lot of time to read.”

I ignored the jibe, if that is indeed what it was. “This is you flexing your power,” I said. “Your power of life and death.”

“Is that really what you think?” He didn’t sound hurt or offended, just curious. 

“It is,” I said fiercely.

Rings on the Tigron’s fingers caught the afternoon light. “You’re wrong, Ponclast,” he said. “Your rehabilitation matters to me. If it can succeed—”

“It’ll mean you’ve done the impossible,” I viciously cut in.

“No.” His voice was soft. “It’ll mean _you_ have.”

I was silent. I did not look at him. I heard him shift his weight in his chair.

“Whatever else hara say about you, Ponclast, none can deny you are a har of great and terrible destiny. What you do matters. It always has. It still does, maybe more than ever.”

I laughed again, sharply. “How?”

“Please listen.” His voice was sad. “Humans who did things like what you’ve done—they couldn’t have atoned for it. Not in their lifetimes. But we live long. Nohar knows how long. You might have all the time in the world, Ponclast. For all we know, you could last long enough to destroy this planet and remake it again a dozen times over.”

In spite of myself, I was listening. His words sank, barbed, into my heart.

“If you can change,” he said, “It could overturn all the old human ways of thinking about good and evil. Redemption wouldn’t just be an idea, some abstract thing you tell yourself you get by praying. It could be real. It could give hope to so many hara. Prove the world is not so cruel.”

“It’s a nice idea, Pellaz,” I said. I made my tone condescending to mask my pain.

For the first time, there was anger in his voice. “Why can’t it be? You were doing so well in that other place. You seemed a changed har. That’s why I brought you back.”

The mention of that other realm, and the other har I’d been in it, brought a pang. Against my better judgment, I spoke frankly:

“I thought I’d changed, too. I was wrong. It was the influence of that other place. And that influence was slipping. My passions had started to awaken again, even before you brought me back. Luckily we were too busy trying to save the world—multiple worlds—for me to have time to think and feel.” I sighed. “I am at my best in action. I always am. But back here, with time to think… I know none of what I was is gone. It was only sleeping.”

“Maybe the new har you were isn’t gone either,” he said. “After all, it’s still a part of you.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. I missed that har. He almost had his innocence back. He reminded me of the boy I’d been, hundreds of years ago. I was him, so completely. I remember thinking and feeling like him—mostly thinking, as the other place muted emotions. But now he was gone, like a dream. He lived, he died, he lived and died again. It hurt even more to lose him a second time.

We were silent for awhile. He knew as well as I how hard it had been to come back. After all, he’d been dealing with nothing but the fallout ever since his decision to return me to earth. The outrage had been worldwide. ‘Controversial’ did not begin to cover it.

“Is this about Geburael?” He asked softly.

I hissed softly and didn’t reply.

“He needs time,” Pellaz said. “He’ll come around.”

“You didn’t read the note he sent,” I said.

“Actually, I did.” He had the grace to sound a little guilty.

My eyes closed. My fists clenched weakly against the bed. “Fuck you.”

“You know your correspondence is reviewed.”

“By the Tigron himself?” I smirked bitterly. “What an honor.”

“Eventually, he will want to see you,” Pellaz said. “I know it.”

My eyes flew open. “You have no fucking idea what it’s like. _You_ can’t even love a child who _wants_ you to love him. I have hundreds of children. I love them all. And they want nothing to do with me.”

“Like you loved Gahrazel?” His tone was acid.

I deserved that. I went limp in my bounds. “I should never have done that to Gahrazel. But at least I waited to hurt him until _after_ he betrayed me.” 

Pellaz also deserved that, and he knew it. “Fine,” he said sharply, “Let’s talk about Abrimel, since you want to. What you did to him was monstrous. I don’t think you could’ve possibly hurt him worse.”

He was right again, and I hated him for it. I responded with defensive vileness. “That’s only because you lack my imagination,” I sneered.

He stood abruptly, his composure finally cracking. “Damn you, Ponclast! You’ve been given every chance. Why do you insist on being like this?”

“It’s who I am,” I said.

He shook his head vehemently. “No,” he said, his voice fierce and low, “It’s not. You know it’s not. You’re a lot of things, but I’ve never thought you were a coward, or a liar, or a quitter. Drop the pose and get yourself together!”

 _Pose._ A word he must have plucked from my mind. I flinched despite myself.

He mustered his self-control. “Think about what I said, please.” Is that the Tigron, begging? “I have a lot to answer for myself, with my son. Your chesnari, or so he believes. It’s not easy to fix things with him, and Ag knows he doesn’t _make_ it easy, but I’m not giving up. You better not give up either.” He drew a deep breath. “You don’t deserve to.”

“Sit back down,” I said.

To my surprise, he did.

“Pellaz,” I said, “I accept your challenge.”

His brows lifted. “Just like that? What changed your mind?”

“You know what you’re doing,” I said. “You appealed to my pride. Besides, you’re right, and I’m not pig-headed enough to deny it.”

He looked at me with narrowed eyes. I knew he was peering into my mind. I let him, because I doubted I could stop him. He had Thiede’s blood, after all.

“Can you untie me?” I asked. “I promise not to try anything.”

He kept on staring. “I sense you mean that sincerely enough now,” he said slowly, “But I’m worried about later on.”

“I can’t try again,” I said. “It’d be too embarrassing. And if I try to hurt anyhar else, that’d be suicidal too, and you know it.”

His hand opened in concession of the point.

“I’ll have them let you out when I leave,” he said. “But I’m afraid my security team would never forgive me if I let you loose in my presence.” He smiled slightly. “I give them enough headaches as it is.”

I couldn’t argue with that, though it did make me wish he’d hurry up and go.

“With your permission, I’d like to give you some healing before I depart,” he said, as if he’d read my mind.

I considered. He had great power. If I was going to attempt the monumental task of making a decent har of myself, I would need my strength back. Allowing him to personally heal me would be the quickest way. “I’d be foolish to refuse,” I said.

He nodded once, and scooted the chair closer to the bedside. He laid his hands gently on my abdomen, and closed his eyes. I felt the warm agmara energy coursing through his palms into me. He was mending me, but he was doing something else too—looking, examining my insides using his spiritual sight.

“Do you still hate your feminine side so much?” He asked softly. “I thought you’d got over that.”

“You understand nothing,” I said.

He was quiet, scanning my body.

“What’s the damage?” I asked.

He frowned. “You’ll definitely live. Eventually you’ll even be able to take aruna again, as soume, if you wish. I doubt you’ll be bearing more pearls, however. There’s scarring on some of the sikra, that may make them impossible to open.”

That made me unaccountably sad.

“That’s fine,” I lied. “I have plenty of children. Probably too many.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “It’s a bit like what happened to Caeru,” he said blandly, “Isn’t it?”

I let that go.

“Some of this scarring is obviously older,” he said.

I stiffened.

“Sorry,” he said, and lapsed into silence. The energy coursed through him and into me, soothing, relaxing. I drowsed as he worked. After about fifteen minutes he took his hands off me.

“You’re making good progress,” he said, sounding satisfied. “We’ll have you walking again within days.”

I couldn’t bring myself to thank him. He was undoing my hard work, after all.

“Is there anything you’d like?” He asked. “I mean by way of entertainment or niceties?”

About to sarcastically request a bevvy of scantily clad soume-hara to suck my ouana-lim, I remembered. “Music,” I said. “Please.”

Pellaz arched a perfect brow as if surprised. I couldn’t imagine why he would be. “Music,” he repeated. “I think we can manage that. Anything in particular?”

“Classical,” I said. “Anthropocene. Brahms, Beethoven, Stravinsky, Tchaikovsky. No fucking Wagner.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I’ll see what we can find,” he said. He went out, shutting the door softly behind him.

***

In my dreams, I was back Shaa Lemul, with Abrimel. We were outside on the beach. The sea was choppy, the sky was dark and roiling. It flashed with thunder and roared with lightning. A violent wind tore at our hair and clawed at our robes.

“Ponclast!” Abrimel’s scream was ripped away by the gale. “Stop this!”

“I’m not doing anything!” I screamed back, but I knew it was a lie. I knew the fury of the elements mirrored the turmoil in my heart. I’d become Master of Shaa Lemul, and now it answered to my moods. A thrilling thing, to have the powers of a god—except that now my moods were no longer under my control.

I looked down at my hands and saw that they were shaking. I tried to breathe deep and steady. My heart was racing.

“Bree,” I said, “Share breath. Ground me.”

Tears streaked his face, blown back towards his ears by the wind. His fists were clenched. 

“I don’t know who you are!” He shouted. “You scare me, Ponclast!”

The irony, of somehar saying he no longer recognized me, _me,_ because I’d begun to frighten him… 

“Please, Bree,” my voice was high and almost childish. “I need you now.”

He cursed, and turned, and stalked off down the beach. I was hyperventilating. A bolt of lightning arced from the sky and struck the sand just behind Abrimel, turning the air to ozone and leaving smoking glass behind. As the thunder roared, he stared back at me in disbelief and horror.

“I didn’t do it!” I yelled, furious with his injustice. “I didn’t do anything!”

A sob broke from his throat. He fled me, running back towards the library to cower among the shelves. But there was no escaping me here. The ground would shake, the books would fall around him. The realm was coming apart, because so I was.

_Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds._

_***_

My restraints were removed, but only after a stern lecture from a Gelaming orderly about how I must not try to stand, sit, move around, or remove the catheter or dilator. That’s what he called the medical-grade dildo shoved up my ‘lam. I assured him countless times that I would remain meekly on my bedpan.

Mercifully, the next morning I was examined and pronounced fit to make the short walk to the bathroom to relieve myself. I was finally freed from the humiliations of catheter, bedpan, and dilator. When it was pulled from my body and unshrouded from the reeking bandages, it was revealed to be not quartz but stainless steel. I was advised that I should use it on myself gently, with plenty of lubricant, three times a day, to ensure that my ‘lam didn’t heal shut. At these words, I silently plunged into a full-scale flashback, but I hid it well enough to make the Gelaming go away.

Mid-morning, my door opened again and a different visitor appeared, carrying a large box. It was the har who’d performed that invasive emergency healing at the scene. I recognized him with extreme displeasure. He was quite ouana in aspect—handsome, really—with straw-colored hair scraped severely back from his face into a tight knot. His jaw was heavy, his eyes cornflower blue. Shades of Terzian. I felt a pang.

I fixed an expression of extreme distaste on my face. “We meet again,” I said archly.

He only ducked his head and stonily said, “Tiahaar.” A flash of irrational anger lit me up, but only for an instant. After years of ‘Lordra,’ ‘Tiahaar’ still felt like an insult.

“Don’t call me that,” I said sharply. “‘Ponclast’ will suffice.”

The words were out before I could think about them. My blighted name would probably taste worse in his mouth than an impersonal honorific. Thankfully, he ignored what I said, with the patented polite insolence of the Gelaming.

“With compliments from the Tigron,” he said. He set down the box on the desk across the room, and began to unpack its contents. A record player emerged, and after that a couple of old vinyls. I sighed with pleasure in spite of myself.

“Shall I put one of these on, Tiahaar?” He asked, his voice stiff and cold.

One of the records was the lovely ninth. The sight of it flooded me with nostalgia. My penchant for classical music may seem an affectation, a self-conscious posture of austere, conservative sophistication. Perhaps it became so, but it didn’t start out that way. Like many a young malchick, I was turned on to it by a certain film noted for its lashings of the old ultraviolence. “Lets have a little of the old Ludwig Van,” I said.

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then examined the records and figured out what I meant. The reference must have been over his head. It was an old one, to be fair. He put on the record, and out of the speakers drifted strains of pure auditory bliss. As I slooshied, I knew such lovely pictures.

There was more in the box. Next, he pulled out a fresh robe. It was in the Gelaming style. I laughed.

“I’d sooner go naked,” I said. That was more or less what I had been doing, beneath the flimsy open-backed smock they had me in.

“Tiahaar,” he said, “I must request that you put this on. A therapist is coming to see you this afternoon.”

“Then bring me something else,” I said. “Anything else. I’m not dressing like the Gelaming.”

His polite tone had begun to fray. “I am afraid Varr leathers are not available. Most of those abominable uniforms were burned after the war, and the few which remain are museum pieces.”

“Including my own old ones, no doubt,” I snapped. “I’m not asking for leathers. Just something else. How about a suit? This is Immanion. Surely somehar in this great city can cut a decent suit. Write this down,” I ordered, and began to rap out my measurements from memory. Looking dazed, he fished out a notepad and began to scribble, but there was something new in his eyes rather than simple disgust. I saw that his hand was shaking. Mid-sentence, I stopped my dictation.

“You were in the war,” I said.

He glanced sharply up at me, and then away. “Yes.”

I drew a deep breath and let it out again, and tried to remember how to act like a person.

“I apologize.” My tone sounded horribly cold and insincere, even though I did mean it. I have never been good at apologies. “I am behaving badly. I don’t have a lot of practice behaving any other way.”

He said nothing, only stared at the floor.

“What is your name?” I asked, doing my best to soften my voice.

“Anders,” he replied, “Tiahaar.”

“Anders har Gelaming?”

He would not meet my eyes. He couldn’t.

“Anders har Parasiel,” he said at last, and a lot of things clicked into place at once.

“Would you like to sit?” I asked him.

“No, Tiahaar.”

“I think you’d better. Your legs are shaking,” I observed.

He collapsed bonelessly into the chair by the desk. I stared at him, shaking my head in wonder.

“Who on earth gave you this assignment?” I asked.

“I requested it,” he said tonelessly.

“Then you have courage. I will always respect that.”

Still, he said nothing.

“We have met before,” I said, “Haven’t we?”

At long last, he raised his eyes. They burned with hatred. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Those eyes—hazy with unshed tears, drunken with terror and fury—finally brought it back.

“Actually,” I said, “I think I do.”

He had been a young soldier. He’d fainted in formation. His knees had been locked for too long. It’s known to happen. I took it upon myself to discipline him personally, for no other reason than that he was sort of my type. I had been feeling vindictive towards Terzian, and Terzian was not within striking distance at the time. It had been the dead of winter. I had him stripped bare and chained to a post in the courtyard, and there, I plied my whip. I remember the satisfaction of watching him shiver as I circled him, warm in my uniform, and my gloves, and my heavy overcoat of stiff wool. My breath misted on the air. His blood froze upon his back. The experience left me so stimulated that I tried to take pelki on him there and then, but his body was colder than a corpse and withered my erection. I was too embarrassed to order him brought to my chambers.

“I won’t insult you by saying I am sorry,” I said.

“Thank you.” To my surprise, and his as well, he seems to mean it.

I thought back on my first words to him—“ _This is pelki.”_ I winced. “It must have been hard, doing what you did for me the other night.”

He inclined his head.

I would have rather swallowed my tongue than say it, but I owed it to him. “Thank you.”

He gave the smallest shrug in acknowledgment of my words. He was thinking of how I had tainted him. For the rest of his life, he would always be the har who saved Ponclast. Whatever I did with the rest of my miserable existence would weigh heavily on his shoulders. Any further crimes I might commit would be on his conscience, too. It had been courage and kindness indeed, for him to save me.

“Please understand about the clothes,” I said. “I am in too fragile a state to contemplate myself as representative of a conquered people.” I tried for a smile. “Think of it as humoring me.”

“Personally, I couldn’t get out of that uniform fast enough.” His voice was sharp.

I felt a flash of anger towards him, a remnant of my investment in the failed Varr project, an absurd sense of betrayal. I quelled it.

“I really need to be able to think about something other than how much I hate my clothes.”

There was a silence. Finally he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” I said again. It was getting easier.

He stood. He was shaking less now, and the helpless rage had begun to recede from his face. “Will that be all, Tiahaar?”

“I need a haircut,” I said. “Can you arrange it?”

A spasm crossed his face, and I cursed myself. I’d almost talked him out of his panic. Now I’d set it off again.

“Not a military burr,” I assured him quickly. “I don’t want that anymore. The fact of the matter is, I haven’t had a haircut since before Gebbadon.” I picked up my long, heavy braid and flipped it over my shoulder. “Look at this. It’s to my knees. Past them, unbound. It’s a bother.”

I was affecting the most soume gestures and tone of voice that I knew how, desperate to allay his discomfort. It didn’t seem to be working. I reverted testily to form.

“It’s only a haircut. A harmless thing, made readily available even to prisoners in most civilized societies. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Bad choice of words—I was hit by a wave of craving. _Roon me._ “Do you think you could get me a cigar?”

He shook his head slowly in wonder. “I’ll see what I can do, Tiahaar.”

He was an Ag-damn saint. I didn’t deserve him, and neither did the world. “I hope the Gelaming pay you well,” I said.

“Well enough.” With a stiff nod, he left the room.

***

By noon, I had my suit, my cigar, and the hairdresser.

I sat and smoked while he worked on me, trying not to look too much like a Generalissimo. The hospital smock helped with that. The suit was laid out on the bed. I wasn’t about to put it on until after I’d thoroughly washed all the hair clippings off me. It was beautiful—somber charcoal, cut slim. I could tell it would fit me perfectly.

The Gelaming hairdresser had raised his eyebrows at my instructions, but had not commented, and so far seemed to be carrying them out perfectly. He was a meek little thing, very soume, who communicated principally with the word “Tiahaar” and the prefixes “Yes” and “No.” He worked fast and efficiently, eager to be done with me. Any time his hand accidentally grazed my skin, he jumped back as if my body burned him. I didn’t care. I was in a good mood. I had my cigar, and Mahler on the turntable. I suppose maybe I was happy to be alive, although I couldn’t have explained why. As the hairdresser worked, a part of the weight of years fell away, shorn by his scissors.

Pellaz came in, without knocking, just as we were finishing up. At the sight of me, he stopped short in the doorway. “Interesting,” he said of my haircut. “Very androgynous. It suits you.”

I smirked as I turned my chair to face him. “In ancient Sparta,” I said, “When a warrior showed cowardice, or demonstrated failure, they shaved half his head.” For a moment, I let my ominous words hang in the air with my cigar smoke, then I laugh. “I’m joking,” I said. “That’s not why I did this. I only thought of that just now.”

Pellaz relaxed slightly. “It really does look good.”

I thought so, too. One side of my head was shaved down even shorter than my military burr of old. The other half had been left longer, though it now stopped at my waist. It was not too masculine, but it certainly wasn’t soft. “Thank you,” I said. I was starting to make a habit of it.

He stepped forward into the room. There was another har with him, I saw now: young, pretty, dark of hair and eye, and from my initial impression, very soume. I wanted to look him over more thoroughly, but I was distracted by a movement in my peripheral vision—the hairdresser with a dust-pan in hand, the sweepings of my hair therein, poised over the waste bin.

My hand shot out and caught him by the wrist. Every har in the room jumped as if I’d pulled a gun.

“No!” I said sharply.

“Ponclast!” Pelleaz’s voice was dangerous. Realizing what I had done, I released the poor har’s arm. I found I was breathing hard.

“Pardon me.” I tried to scrape together my composure. “Among the Va—my hara, it is unthinkable to simply throw away shorn hair. It is believed to hold our essence, and it must be ritually burnt.”

Pellaz’s eyes were narrowed. “Do you think it’s in the spirit of your recovery, Ponclast, to hold on to Varrish customs?”

“I have very little by way of religious observance,” I said, and to my shame, I found I was close to tears. “Allow me this, Tigron.”

To my surprise, Pellaz looked to the young har behind him.

“What do you think, Gahrazel?” He asked. Or at least, that is what I heard. I froze, my heart in my mouth. _Impossible._

The young har stepped forward with great confidence. He was perhaps not quite so completely soume as I had first assumed—he moved with a mixture of masculine swagger and feminine sway. His dress was very neat and professional, but not Gelaming. Sulh, I thought. This impression was confirmed by his accent when he spoke, addressing not Pellaz but me.

“Ponclast,” he said, “I think you should save it. Decide what to do with it later.” Strangely, my name did not sound poisoned in his mouth. I couldn’t decide if he had doe eyes or tiger eyes.

I could barely process what he was saying. My son, had he lived—had I let him live—might have looked something like this by now.

“What did you say your name was?” I asked carefully. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pellaz stiffen, catching on.

“Gesaril,” the har enunciated. “What do you think of my idea? You can come up with a new ritual, maybe.”

His tone was soothing, and a bit condescending, or at least that is how it struck my ear. “Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.

He smiled slightly. “I’m your new therapist.”


	2. Chapter 2

GESARIL

The Tigron and the hairdresser having made themselves scarce, I was left alone with the most notorious war criminal in harrish history.

He sat there looking at me, still in his smock, legs bare, hair clippings clinging to his face and neck, and for all that, from his bearing, he might have been a monarch on a throne. A throne of skulls, I thought, despite myself, and shivered.

The second thing I thought was: _Ysobi._

The name came to me rarely those days. I have gone weeks, months, maybe entire years not thinking of him. I wasn’t entirely sure why I thought of him now. True, the har in front of me bore some superficial physical resemblance to my nemesis of old: dark haired, bony-faced, and attenuated. But he really didn’t look like Ysobi at all. He was much more beautiful, in fact—perhaps handsome was a better word—if in a strange way. His features were severe, austere—long nose and chin, high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, hooded eyes. His mouth was quite full, but one didn’t notice right away because his lips were nearly as pale as the rest of his face. There were lines on his face—not many, but still more than was usual for a har—a deep crease between his dark brows from much frowning, a hard line from his nose to the corner of his lip, from too many sneers. His eyes—they were nothing like Ysobi’s, grey and cold as the dead of winter. Intense hostility and contempt radiated from him. I almost backed up a step.

He stared me down silently for what felt like forever, then rose, with tired grace. “I want to clean up,” he said, “And dress.”

“That’s alright.” My voice was very weak, and squeaked a little. “We have plenty of time.”

He favored me with one of those sneers that had carved their legacy into his face, and without another word, he went into the bathroom.

While the shower ran, I looked around the room. It looked nearly the same as the others in the facility, yet somehow his mark had been left on it. There was a turntable on the desk, and a few records. I looked at them: Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler. The last struck me as a strange choice, but I realized it was what had been playing when I came in. The record was still spinning. I lifted the needle and it stopped.

His hair littered the floor. The dustpan sat on the ground, abandoned. I busied myself by sweeping up the rest of the cuttings and depositing them in a large, empty box I found nearby. His hair must have been incredibly long. There were skeins and skeins of it, like dark seaweed.

I was reviewing his file when he walked out—stark naked.

“Oh,” I said, and averted my eyes. I didn’t want to think about that body—where it had been, what it had done, the circumstances under which it was usually seen bare. It was like an unsheathed weapon. But he didn’t seem to be brandishing it at me. He behaved more as if I simply wasn’t there. He walked to the bed and I heard the rustle of cloth as he dressed himself.

“You can look now,” he said in a few moments.

I looked. He was dressed in a sharp, dark suit, with pointed dress boots. He was busy pulling on leather gloves. He looked very ouana in the outfit, with the shaved side of his head turned toward me, but when he turned the impression shifted as I saw the spill of his dark hair over his other shoulder. He looked self-contained, and in command. When I’d first come in, I’d thought he seemed like any other mental patient: brittle, a bit pathetic, clinging to scraps of dignity and control. That wasn’t how he seemed now.

He seated himself. His cigar was still smoldering. He picked it up from the ashtray and pulled on it, making the cherry glow to life like an evil red eye.

“I used to use Terzian’s mouth as an ashtray,” he remarked, “And sometimes other parts of his body. What do you think of that?”

I thought he was trying to shock me. It was so juvenile that it was almost comforting. Suddenly the cigar made him seem less like a dictator and more like a harling with a pacifier.

“I think that sounds unsanitary,” I said, “But I make no judgment on other hara’s kinks.”

He laughed sharply. I realized belatedly that this particular har probably had predilections of which I would not approve. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said.

I looked around. There was only one other chair. I pulled it up across from him. “How are you feeling?” I asked him.

“Like I’ve been needing a cigar for years,” he replied.

It was definitely a pacifier.

“We can play this any way you want,” I said. “I’m here to listen.”

“Don’t the Gelaming already monitor my every thought?” His voice was bitter. “What’s the point in drawing me out?”

They did monitor his thoughts. I’d read about that in his massive file. In his mind, he dwelt on his atrocities, reliving them over and over in lurid detail. Turnover was high among listeners assigned to him. I thought he was probably doing it on purpose.

“I’m going to talk to them about that, actually,” I said. “I don’t think it’s healthy for you.”

He laughed cynically. I could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe I would do any such thing.

“They’ll never agree,” he said. 

“The Tigron is invested in your recovery. I think I can persuade him to see my way.”

His eyes raked over me insolently, taking in every inch of my body. The look was enough. It insinuated exactly what means of persuasion he thought I possessed. I crossed my legs uncomfortably and tried not to be bothered. Every single thing he did was a deflection. I felt like we were fencing, and he was expertly beating back my every attack.

What angle should I try next? I settled on ‘crude, direct, and a little bit morbid.’

“So, what’s it like to stick a sword up your ‘lam? I’ve tried a lot of things, but never that.”

He laughed. “I’d show you, sweetheart,” his voice dripped deadly venom, “But they won’t let me have sharp things.”

That was the wrong angle.

“I guess I walked into that,” I said lightly.

He gave me a calculating look. I’d begun to interest him. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

“You’re an unusual therapist,” he said.

I shrugged. “I suit my methods to my patients. You’re an unusual patient.”

He frowned and sucked on his cigar. The room was filled with smoke. It was making me dizzy. He’d shut down again. It had to be the word ‘patient.’ He hated to be reminded of his condition.

“You must be bored in here,” I said. “You may as well talk to me. We can just chat.”

“Actually,” he said, and his leather-sheathed fingers strayed to his fly, “I was hoping we could move on from the talk portion of this session.”

I gaped, takenaback. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I fend off rude propositions every day. But coming from the world’s most notorious murderer, torturer and rapist, I have to admit, it shook me.

“I’m not that kind of therapist,” I said, my voice wavering. By Ag, I sounded like I ought to have been clutching pearls. This was not the tone to take with him.

He smirked. “You have been.”

 _Great,_ I thought. _He can see into my mind._

“But I’m not now,” I said, “So that doesn’t matter.”

“Pity,” he mock-sighed. “What a thing it would have been to put on your resume.”

“This is still fantastic resume fodder,” I retorted.

He threw back his head and laughed, full-throated. The arch of his neck was exquisite. When he lowered his chin again to look at me, his eyes glimmered with merriment.

“At least you’re honest,” he said. “I thought therapists were meant to pretend to care.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did,” I said.

“No,” he agreed, “I wouldn’t.”

He was toying with the long part of his hair, a very feminine gesture, while his other hand still balanced the cigar with a carelessly masterful attitude. Baphomet.

“I am very interested to talk to you, though,” I said. “I’m youngish, second generation, and I’m Sulh. I don’t have the same kind of baggage about you that the Gelaming or the Megalithican tribes do. And I don’t mind hearing shocking things.”

“A voyeur,” he said.

I ignored this. “We can start wherever you like,” I said. “Earlier, you mentioned Terzian. Do you want to talk about him?”

A shadow passed over his face.

“Terzian,” he murmured. “So ouana, but not with me. Every har knew, yet we were always discreet. An open secret. I think we may have been something like chesna.”

None of this was new information, exactly—it was all in his file—but it was good that he was talking about it. I leaned forward encouragingly. “It doesn’t have to be secret anymore,” I prompted.

He gave me a narrow-eyed look. “You want to hear about Terzian? I corrupted him. I trained him like a dog. Broke his spirit, brought him to heel—and then gave him the taste for blood. Oh, he’d been a killer before, in his tidy, sterile way. I taught him to eat flesh, quite literally. Human and hara. When we were alone, I made him sit at my feet while I dined, and I fed him scraps from my hand… scraps of our defeated enemies.”

He was doing it again—reviewing his crimes with nigh masturbatory relish. Indeed, the front of his immaculately tailored trousers had begun to bulge. I forced my face to remain neutral throughout. Perhaps if I didn’t react, if I heard this appalling filth without judgment, it would make a difference for him. Maybe he just needed to tell somehar who wouldn’t flinch.

“I was never soume for him,” he continued. “Never. That is my regret. I used him just as I did all my other slaves. What a waste. He was almost a true ouana har, the rarest of finds. But I was never soume at all in those days…”

He trailed off. 

“It sounds like you miss him,” I said.

He fixed me with a sardonic stare. “No,” he said. “I don’t. Sometimes I like to lie to myself that he was one my one true love, but the truth is, I never respected him. I used him like a tool, and he let me, because he was that kind of har. The aruna was good. That was all.”

I couldn’t tell if this was honesty or more misdirection. Strangely, I thought it was the former.

“You understand this perfectly,” he said, “because you are the same. There was a har once, who you deluded yourself into loving; yet secretly you always knew he was scum.”

I started, and he smiled cruelly.

“Now you are thinking that perhaps this is only a parlor trick. Vague statements and lucky guesses. But I heard you say his name when you walked into the room, even though you did not speak. How he degraded you in the eyes of the world! Made every har think you were.. what were the words?... ‘a soume shrew.’”

That specific phrase could only have been plucked directly from my mind. I tried to close my defenses, but it was too late.

“You were probably drawn to him because you hated yourself for what happened when you were small,” he went on. “You felt polluted by the hara who brutally plucked your virginity before it had a chance to ripen. You knew he could confirm your low opinion of yourself. I remind you of him,” he said, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.

I was shaking with rage, yet I didn’t even realize what I was feeling until I found myself slamming his file down on the desk.

“You have no right to pry in my head like that!”

He smirked—nearly simpered, really. “What gives you the right to pry in mine?”

“It’s my _job_.”

“I didn’t hire you.” He was examining his nails, unconcerned.

I struggled to regain control of myself. “This isn’t about me,” I snapped, still sounding embarrassingly petulant. “You’ll say anything to avoid talking about yourself. You can pretend to be OK, but it’s obvious you’re not. Why don’t we talk about the night you took a sword to your ‘lam? Was Abrimel not giving it to you? Where you that desperate?”

His expression was that of a conqueror—unshakeable confidence, disdainful pride.

“Share breath with me,” he said, “And I will show you how it was.”

I couldn’t take anymore.

“We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” I said shortly. “In the meantime, I advise that you rest, and maybe try a cold shower.”

And snatching up the file, I nearly bolted from the room. His cold laughter followed me.

The tears burst from my eyes as soon as the door closed behind me. I clenched my teeth and my fists and kept my sobs as silent as I stalked down the hall. He’d treated me like a child, and I’d acted like one. I was so angry I could barely breathe.

***

I hid in a bathroom stall until I had cried myself dry. Then I came out and splashed water on my face until it didn’t look so red and puffy anymore. I was fixing my makeup when a stall door opened and I heard a voice behind me:

“Alright, love?”

It was a warm, Erinne accent, surprising to hear in this distant land. The voice sounded familiar, maybe simply because it sounded like home. I glanced up at the mirror, and realized that wasn’t the only reason, not at all.

“Jassenah!” I gasped. I wondered if I was going mad, seeing ghosts.

There he was, blond and lovely, and very clearly flesh and blood. He was more sharply dressed and elegantly coiffed than I had ever seen him, in a close-fitting, dark green shift that covered him from neck to wrist to ankle yet somehow managed to flatter his slim figure. It was given relief by chunky silver statement jewelry—necklace, earrings, bangles. He was dressed, in short, sort of like a therapist. I started to realize what was going on.

Meanwhile, Jassenah was staring at me in a shock that mirrored mine, probably going through a similar mental process. “Gesaril!” He exclaimed at last. “What a lovely surprise.”

I turned to face him, nervously twisting a lock of my hair. “Is it really?” I asked, feeling fragile and tentative.

He laughed. “Yes, really! All that’s in the past. I finally dumped the fucker.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be,” he grinned. “Congratulate me. I should’ve done it long ago.”

I happened to agree with him. “Congratulations, then,” I said, awkwardly.

“Thanks.” His warmth seemed so genuine, and his happiness so real. “I see now you did me a favor.”

I wouldn’t have put it that way. Once, long ago, I hurt Jassenah. I tried to take his chesnari, the father of his son. In return, Jassenah had chased away my ghosts and monsters. He had shown me mercy, as little as I deserved it, and given me healing. I owed him. I never forgot that. I was so relieved he didn’t hate me.

“Can I hug you?” I asked shyly.

“Of course!” He drew me into a bone-crushing embrace, smothering me in his silky hair and the scent of his perfume. Lily-of-the-valley. I wanted to sob on his shoulder.

After a moment, he pushed me away. “I’d love to catch up,” he said, “But I’m on my way to a meeting with the rest of the care team. Are you on it?”

I blinked back more tears and tried for a smile. “Yes,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me about the meeting, I almost forgot.”

He smiled back. I could see in his eyes that he noticed my pain and wanted to ask about it. But all he said was, “We’d better go, then.”

We left the bathroom and power-walked down the hall. Jassenah’s long, loping, leggy stride was slightly at odds with his femininity. I had to walk double-time to keep up, feeling like a tiny dog scurrying after its owner.

“What do they have you doing, then?” Jassenah asked.

“Talk therapy,” I panted. “With Ponclast.”

He glanced at me sidelong, and raised a brow. “Lucky you!” He said sardonically. “I’m doing the same, for his chesnari.”

“Abrimel?” I asked stupidly, as if he had another.

Jassenah nodded. We had reached the meeting room. I moved to open it, but the door swung open before I could touch the handle. A yellow-haired har stuck his head out and welcomed us with a lazy grin.

“Come on in,” he said. “We were just about to start without you.”

I did my best not to gawk at Tigron Calanthe. I’d met him before, but I was much more familiar with Pellaz. Cal’s chequered past, not to mention his legendary good looks, tended to intimidate me. Jassenah, entirely undazzled, just grinned back at him.

“That’d be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it?” He said brightly, and strode through the door. Cal looked him up and down with obvious appreciation as he passed.

“I like a har who doesn’t click his heels at me,” he said.

“Cal!” That was Pellaz’s voice, admonishing. I looked and saw him sitting at the head of a long mahogany table. Many hara were already seated around it, including Tigrina Caeru. The instant I saw him, I was even more star-struck. Perhaps it’s some kind of Sulh genetic memory, but I’ve always had a weakness for the royals. They’re not even our royals—we don’t have a monarchy anymore, and I’m glad of it. I think monarchy is an absurd system. Yet I’ve been following gossip and reporting on the Aralisians since I was a child, and have always been particularly enthralled by the Tigrina’s outfits. He was relatively dressed down today, in leather trousers that probably cost more than the contents of my entire wardrobe, and a drapey sort of halter top held up by a thick gold chain. His white-blond hair was teased, and heavy rings glinted on all of his fingers.

There were three open chairs left, for Jassenah, Cal, and me. Feeling supremely out of place, I sat down. The others did likewise, Jassenah taking the open seat next to mine, Cal settling between Pell and Caeru and looping an arm around each of their shoulders.

There were some preliminary introductions. I met the medical team, lead by a har named Sheeva, and the guards and orderlies. I was impressed and pleased that they were included in the meeting. Sometimes, the Gelaming really do get it right. That would never have happened in class-conscious Kyme. Then it was time for Jassenah and I to introduce ourselves. I learned, from his introduction, that since I’d last seen him he’d taken over Ysobi’s duties and seemingly surpassed his ex-chesnari’s reputation as a hienama, healer, and teacher of arunic arts. By the time it was my turn to speak, I was feeling settled enough to rise and give my usual professional patter with composure.

When we were done, Pellaz steepled his hands on the table and looked at us seriously. “How did it go today?” He asked.

Jassenah and I exchanged glances. “Would you mind going first?” I asked.

He must have seen the entreaty in my eyes. He acknowledged it with a comforting wink. “Not at all,” he said, and turned back to Pellaz. “It went all right,” he said. “Your son is traumatized, but that’s to be expected. I’d say he’s having a healthy reaction to an abnormal situation. He should recover well, given good care.”

Caeru breathed a soft sigh of relief.

Pellaz waited a few moments after Jassenah had finished speaking. “Is that all you can tell me?” He asked finally, with mild disbelief.

Jassenah shrugged. “Not without breaking confidentiality,” he said.

Pellaz frowned. “There are listeners scanning his mind,” he said, as if to highlight the absurdity of this statement. 

“I know,” Jassenah replied. “In my opinion, that should stop at once. It’s bad for him, and he’s no real threat to you.”

Tigron Pellaz sat back, his hands flat on the table in front of him, and gave Jassenah a hard look. He wasn’t used to other hara telling him the way it ought to be. He wasn’t sure how to react to it. Emboldened by Jassenah’s boldness, I broke in.

“I agree, actually. I think Ponclast is ruminating on his atrocities because he knows his mind is monitored. He does it out of spite, and to protect his privacy. It prevents him from making any real progress and it traumatizes the listeners. You should put a stop to it.”

During the course of this speech, Pellaz’s mouth had fallen slightly open. Tigron Cal hid a smile behind his hand.

“They’re probably right,” he said. “Ag knows I had a hard time thinking healthy thoughts when I was under Gelaming surveillance.”

Pellaz gave him a look that said: _Et tu, Brute?_

For the first time, the Tigrina spoke. “They’re making sense. Abrimel’s no threat. We’ve monitored his mind for years and never once picked up even a hint of a coherent and viable plot. He’s not capable of hurting us.”

Pellaz nodded towards Caeru in acknowledgement. “I can see stopping surveillance on Abrimel,” he conceded, “But Ponclast could still be dangerous.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Not even to himself.”

Pellaz turned his gaze on me. “That’s a professional opinion?”

“Of course,” I said, a little surprised that I meant it.

The Tigron sat back and chewed on his lip. “We could just _tell_ them we stopped surveillance,” he mused.

“No,” said Jassenah sharply.

“It might work on Abrimel,” I said, “I don’t know. But Ponclast is a strong psych and he would notice.”

“And anyway,” Jassenah pressed, “It’s wrong. I don’t approve of it.”

Cal was looking at Jassenah as if he approved strongly of him. “This is what I’ve been saying,” he said to Pellaz.

Pellaz still looked unconvinced. “So far, you’ve managed to avoid telling us how your session was, Gesaril,” he remarked. “I’d like to hear about that before I make any decision on surveillance.”

I gulped, and wondered if I was about to lose my job.

“It wasn’t good,” I admitted. “I walked out early. I was handling him fine for a good forty-five minutes or so, but he managed to hit on a real sore spot, and he was nasty about it. I shouldn’t have blinked, but I did. I’m sorry.”

I was close to tears again, and it was mortifying. Here I was, supposedly a professional therapist and healer, trusted with one of the most prestigious jobs I could imagine, and already on day one I was proving myself unworthy. I stared at the table for a few moments, until I was fairly sure my lip had stopped trembling, then finally dared to look up at the royals. Three sets of illustrious eyes stared at me, and the only thing I saw in any of them was compassion.

“He’s not here because he’s easy to handle,” said Caeru. “I doubt anyhar else could’ve done better.”

“But,” I stammered, “you have the best therapists in the world here in Immanion!”

“And none of them wanted the case,” Pellaz interjected, “And he never would’ve talked to them, anyway.”

Cal grinned at me. “Forty-five minutes is a long time to last in the ring with Ponclast.”

“Yes,” Pellaz agreed. “That’s far longer than I have subjected myself to him thus far.” He frowned slightly. “Still, it’s not ideal. If he thinks he perceives weaknesss…”

He trailed off. He didn’t need to finish that sentence aloud. We all knew what Ponclast would do if he saw vulnerability in me. He’d try to eat me alive—metaphorically. Literal cannibalism was no longer an option for him. An image flashed through my mind—myself, naked, lying on a long dining table, immobile but conscious as he pierced my thigh with a silver fork and delicately carved himself a slice with a steak knife. I shivered. There was a nasty eroticism to that. I could see it, and even feel it, but I didn’t like it.

Pellaz was saying something. I forced myself to refocus.

“If you would prefer not to take this job after all, please let me know now. It would be perfectly understandable.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I still want it.”

Pellaz raised an eyebrow, surprised by my vehemence. I realized I was leaning forward with my fists clenched on the table. I made myself relax and lean back in my seat.

“He’s like an unbroken horse. He threw me. The only thing to do is get right back on. Show him who’s boss.” I thought belatedly of how Ponclast would respond to this metaphor, the salacious scorn he would heap upon me for it, and I cringed inwardly. Tigron Cal was smiling to himself—innuendo was his native tongue—but he was decent enough not to comment.

Pellaz smiled thinly. “I think you’re right. Back to it tomorrow then?”

I nodded, and tried to smile back. “Same time, same place.” Remembering, I quickly added: “I do have one request.”

“What’s that?” Pellaz asked.

I winced at what I was about to ask. I could try to say it delicately, but what was the point? “Get him laid.”

Cal laughed outright. So did Jassenah. Caeru wrinkled his exquisite nose in distaste. Pellaz sighed and looked resigned.

“Yes,” he said, “If there ever was a har in need of arunic healing, it’s him. However, finding somehar both qualified for the task and willing to take it on might be a bit of an ordeal.”

“My ex chesnari could do it,” Jassenah suggested mischeviously, and I slapped at his wrist under the desk. Pellaz raised his eyebrows.

“Ysobi har Jesith? Was that a serious suggestion?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I wasn’t even talking about healing, not yet. I’m just asking you to find him somehar for simple aruna. He’s obsessed, and I think quite pent up, and he’s taking it out on me.”

“I see.” Pellaz chewed his lip. “You certainly shouldn’t be subjected to that.” He addressed himself to Jassenah. “I assume there’s no chance Abrimel is ready for a conjugal visit?”

Jassenah shook his head. “None whatsoever.”

Pellaz sighed again. “I suspected as much. Well, if we aren’t looking for a highly trained healer, it may be a bit easier to find a willing har, but still—”

“I’ll do it,” said Tigron Cal.

“You will not!” Cried Pellaz and Caeru simultaneously.

“I _was_ a kanene,” Cal pointed out, without the slightest hint of shame.

I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

A har at the far end of the table coughed. I looked over at him. It was the blond har who had introduced himself as Anders.

“With due respect, Tigron.” He said, “As chief of security on this assignment, I would greatly appreciate it if you did not. I am sure my hara would as well.”

“Relax,” Cal drawled, “I was just trying to interject some comic relief.”

Pellaz exhaled audibly in exasperation. I sensed that maybe, had Cal’s proposition not been so roundly rejected, it might have been serious. Everyhar knew that Tigron Cal loved to collect notches for his belt, and had a predilection for noteworthy hara. He’d already had Terzian, after all. Why not Ponclast, too?

“We’ll look for somehar.” Pellaz sounded exhausted.

Cal gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Immanion is a big city, and it has its seamy side. I’ll look. Bet I can find him a nice whore by tonight.”

Pellaz looked as if he didn’t know whether to be grateful for Cal’s comfort with the underworld, or embarrassed by it. “Thank you,” he said at last. He rose tiredly from his seat. “I think we can stop psychic surveillance on Abrimel,” he told Jassenah. “At least for the time being.”

“Thank you, Tigron,” said Jassenah. “I really do think it’ll facilitate his recovery.”

Pellaz turned his gaze on me. “As for the surveillance on Ponclast, that’s a matter I’ll have to discuss with my military advisors, and maybe even the Hegemony. You understand.”

I did. To be honest, I was glad he was even considering my suggestion. I thought, too, that Ponclast might appreciate hearing that his chesnari, at least, had been relieved of mental eavesdroppers.

“Of course,” I said.

Pellaz rubbed tiredly at his temples. “If there’s nothing else, shall we adjourn?”

There was nothing. We were, all of us, out of ideas. Exhausted, we dispersed.

Jassenah caught up with me in the hallway.

“I know you’re probably dead tired,” he said. “But perhaps you’d like to meet up for drinks later?”

For some reason, the invitation made me feel shy. I flushed. “Oh,” I mumbled, “I’d like that. I mean, if you would.”

Jassenah grinned at me. He was visibly sweaty from the close air of the conference room, and strands of his golden hair were coming loose around his face. He looked beautiful. “Of course I would. I’m asking, aren’t I?”

I still couldn’t believe he actually liked me, not after everything. “You don’t have to be so nice, you know.” It came out sharper than I meant it to.

Jassenah rolled his eyes. “Ag’s sake! It’s not a ploy. Your patient’s paranoia is rubbing off on ya. It’s just drinks. A lot has happened since I saw you last. I want to catch up. Besides,” he added wickedly, “I want a chance to discuss our patients away from those meddling Gellies.”

That offer was hard to refuse. At the moment, I wanted nothing more than to thoroughly dissect my session with Ponclast. There were far less pleasant ways to do that than over drinks with Jassenah.

“All right,” I said, and he beamed. We made arrangements to meet later, and then parted. I was eager to return to my hotel, being in desperate need of a shower, a nap, and a cry.


	3. Chapter 3

PONCLAST

I was not pleased with myself.

Yes, I laughed as my therapist ran off, but as soon as his footsteps faded down the hall, I grew aware of my own folly. I was alone in the room again, with nothing to do but sulk and smoke and listen to Mahler.

I had been serious about my rehabilitation—or so I had thought—so why had I chased off a har who was trying to help me? What had compelled me to act that way? It had not been clever. It had barely even been intentional. Was cruelty a reflex to me now?

I stood, and paced. I had nothing against the therapist, aside from the unfortunate resonance of his name. In fact, now that I thought about it, I realized I rather liked him. He had guts, and backbone. He’d taken a lot off me before he cracked. Now he was gone, and it was entirely possible that he would not return. Whoever replaced him would likely be far less charming. _Well done, Ponclast. Brilliant strategy. Another glorious victory for the books._

I stopped before the box of hair, standing forlorn in the corner. I gazed down into the silky tangles of my shorn locks. It had been thoughtful of him to suggest that I save them.

This was a thing he’d left me, a curious gift—a chance to make a decision, however small, to replace an old habit with a new.

I reached down, and fished out a long twine of hair. I ran it through my fingers, wound it round my wrist, lifted it to my face and sniffed. It had no smell. It should reek of battle, of blood and smoke and horrors and the years past. The very ends of it, which were horribly split, were what I had worn at Fulminir for my first defeat. It had been so short, mercilessly hacked down to a facsimile of military masculinity. I’d been Clotho then, though I didn’t know it, ready to spin out a different fate.

I traced along the strand, feeling like Lachesis measuring out the thread of a life. Further along was Gebaddon. Here should be the smell of moss and leaves and rot. Nightmares, and howling in the dark that sounded like wolves but wasn’t. I’d lived with demons real and hallucinated. For a time I was ravished nightly by a shade of Terzian who, at the last moment, always turned into my murdered son and melted in my arms, as Gahrazel had beneath my lover. That only stopped when I learned to enjoy it.

There in Gebaddon nothing had mattered. We were locked in our private hell, a universe unto ourselves. In savage despair I had opened my legs to my own offspring, and given birth to my own highsons. We lived like animals there, and like animals we had fought and copulated.

_Midway upon the journey of our life_

_I found myself within a forest dark,_

_For the straightforward pathway had been lost._

_Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say_

_What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,_

_Which in the very thought renews the fear._

_So bitter is it, death is little more._

My hair had grown long in Gebaddon. Sometimes it was the only thing I wore there.

Along the line I traced my story. There was Abrimel, the second war. And then, the library. Nothing but the library, a place of recording that was not recorded. My hair had not grown at all while I was there.

Where was I now, and who? The line had ended. Atropos had come and cut the thread. This must be a new life.

The thought was comforting.

Impulsively, I began to braid the hair. This strand was a biography. I would hang it on the wall, perhaps, to remember. Let it hold what little of my old soul I still wanted to keep. The rest could be thrown away, as the sensible har with the dustpan had intended. I did not need to burn it to protect myself from hexes. I was cursed enough. Let the world have all of me. I was so deep in debt to it, after all, that I must belong to it by now.

GESARIL

I took my time getting ready for Jassenah. I could hear soft music drifting up from the hotel lobby. A live band was playing. I let it be my soundtrack as I primped.

The nap had refreshed me, and now I felt full of a strange fire. Something had got into me, and I was young and wild again. For some reason, probably having to do with spite towards Ponclast, I felt like looking very soume. I painted my lips and darkened my eyelids. I sprayed on perfume that smelled of wet jasmine and gardenias. Then I shimmied into something short, tight and clingy. It was cut high and low in all the right places to make hara stare, and it shimmered with beads and sequins in shades of champagne. I left my long legs bare beneath it, and smoothed lotion onto them until they were silky as could be. Feeling naughty, I omitted underclothes. I finished it all off with some silver hoop earrings—several to each ear, I had the piercings for it—gold bangles up one arm almost to the elbow, and strappy sandals with spiky heels.

As I dressed in this costume, I imagined sashaying into therapy in this getup tomorrow. How Ponclast would look at me then! I envisioned teasing him, sitting across from him with my legs carelessly open so he could see right up my skirt. I could just picture the look in his eyes, blazing with the heat of what he’d want to do to me and the fury of knowing that Gelaming guards stood just outside. Would he be able to control himself? I imagined the gloved hand fisting in my hair, leather gloved fingers slipping between my thighs—what was with the gloves, anyway? Surely some kind of psychological prop, a security blanket—what dark visions I might see in his breath as his lips mashed against mine, a growl in his throat—

What the hell was I thinking? This was not healthy. I paused and tried to analyze the situation.

I’m an open-minded har, as I had told him. I’m generally unbothered by sexual hang-ups or kinky fantasies, including dark ones. I’m at peace with my own. Even chaitra and pelcia can be good clean fun between adult, consenting hara, as I’d discovered for myself some years ago. Besides, I don’t believe in thought crime. Having fantasies, even about a client, wasn’t the problem.

I could accept that I was attracted to him. I’d been attracted to clients before. It had never caused an issue. I didn’t cross that line unless arunic healing was explicitly part of the job from the start, and if I found myself thinking about a har too much, I had no problem giving him a referral to another provider. Being attracted to him wasn’t the problem, either.

The problem, I realized, was that I had not felt such a vindictive edge to my own desire in quite a long time. Not since Ysobi and I last met in Kyme had I experienced such impulses. Something in me wanted to rend and claw. It was like being an alley cat in heat, desperate to mate or fight or both. Ponclast made me want to weaponize sex. That, _that_ was the problem.

I sighed, and looked in the mirror again. What I saw made me blush. I was stunning, yes. But my intention to be so was too obvious. I saw all my worst impulses in this outfit, which seemed to scream “I’ll show you a soume shrew!” I was dressed to break hearts. I was ashamed.

Belatedly, I worried that Jassenah might think it was all for him, and get the wrong idea. Would he think I was trying to seduce him—or worse, to outshine him? Would he see the mean, needy child I’d been back when I tried to steal Ysobi away?

 _I should change,_ I thought, but then came a knock on the door. He was here. It was too late.

My heart in my mouth, I walked to the door and opened it.

There stood Jassenah. If I’d wanted to outshine him, I would’ve had to try harder. He was radiant, and at least as tarted up as I was. His slim figure had been poured into a tiny white dress with a halter neck and no back. I wouldn’t dare go clubbing in white—too afraid I’d spill my drink—so I was most impressed. His lean, creamy thighs were as bare as mine, but below the knee his legs were somewhat concealed by sheer, white mesh boots adorned by sequined applique flowers. His fingernails were silvered.

For a moment I gawked at him, and he gawked right back at me, and then he started to grin. “Well,” he said, “Seems you were as eager to get out of therapist drag as I was.”

My nerves eased a little. Sure, I could play it off that way. That was part of it, anyway. I managed a laugh. “The expected professional wardrobe is just so uninspiring.”

“You manage to make it look good,” he said.

“You do too,” I answered, “Though this looks better.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I was having serious misgivings about my decision to go commando. If I became ouana under this dress, my ‘lim would have no place at all to hide. _His_ dress was tight and structured enough that it would probably keep things from getting unseemly. Then again, he was probably sensible enough to wear underwear… why was I even thinking about this?

_Dammit, Gesaril. First your client and now your colleague?_

“Where shall we go?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s my first time in Immanion,” he said. “I was hoping you’d show me around.”

I had spent a lot of time in Immanion—mostly in places one probably shouldn’t take a coworker, with names like ‘Triple Flower.’ I thought quickly. Underground sex clubs were out of the question. What would Jassenah like? What was his kind of place? He was dressed for drinking and dancing. Surely I knew somewhere more conventional…

“Olympia is nice,” I said, “If that’s alright with you.” 

“Never heard of it,” said Jassenah brightly. “Lead the way.”

***

We ending up grabbing a bite to eat in the hotel restaurant, which was quite good. The tables were candlelit. It felt awkwardly like a date. I felt nervous and shy again, but Jassenah put me at ease, chattering brightly about all the hara back in Jesith. It seemed Jassenah had become a more beloved hienama than ever Ysobi was—less reclusive, far more involved in leading rituals and festivals for the town.

“How’s Zeph?” I asked. “He must be grown by now.”

“He turned out fine,” said Jassenah. “Really blossomed once Ysobi moved out.”

I wanted to ask exactly what had happened with that, but kept silent. I was sure he’d tell me in time. Jassenah went on, “He’s a student, now, at Kyme. Surprised you haven’t run across each other, though I suppose it is a big place. I think you’d like him.”

I shrugged helplessly. “I believe it, but he probably hates me.”

Jassenah cocked his head. “He hates the idea of you, maybe. If he actually met you, I think you’d get on fine.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to this. Was Jassenah trying to set me up with his son? I must still seem like a child to him. I stared at my plate and pushed the food around on it.

“You can ask, you know,” said Jassenah. “I can tell you’re dying to.”

I twitched slightly, then realized what he was referring to. “It’s none of my business,” I said. “I don’t want to pry.”

“He went off to Wales,” Jassenah said. “Got mixed up with some weird hara. While he was gone, I realized I didn’t want him to come home. So I wrote him a letter and said so.” He smiled acidly. “I was very nice about it, because if I wasn’t, I knew he’d come back and try to get the last word.”

“That does sound like Ysobi,” I allowed. “But I wish you could’ve let him have a piece of your mind!”

“So do I,” Jassenah admitted, “But at the end of the day, I got the house, I got the harling, and I got him out of my hair. I even got his job.”

He did seem to be thriving. I hoped his happiness was genuine, and didn’t conceal the pain of a heart not yet repaired. “Where is he now?” I couldn’t help asking. 

Jassenah flapped his napkin dismissively. “I don’t know and I don’t care.” Just for a moment, he narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you?”

“Ag, no,” I cried, appalled. “I’m over that!”

He held my gaze steadily. “Just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t be angry or jealous if you decided to take another run at him, now that he’s free. But I would feel sorry for you.”

I was affronted. “I’m not such a fool,” I said. “Not anymore.” Then I thought of Ponclast’s cold gray eyes, and wondered if that was true. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Jassenah drily, “though it’s what I’d assumed. You’ve obviously done a lot of growing up.”

He reached across the table, took my hand, and squeezed it. His fingers were warm and strong. It was an innocent gesture, almost maternal, but it made my heart flutter.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” he said. “I’m dying to hear.”

Glad that the topic had changed, I told Jassenah about how I’d passed the years since our last meeting, mostly by getting thoroughly over-educated. The waiter had brought us coffee and dessert by the time I was done narrating my academic career. As we left the hotel and walked out into the cool, pale-lilac Immanion evening, I told him about my time spent doing humanitarian work in Megalithica, offering free therapy to survivors of the manifold conflicts that had ravaged that country. I logged clinical hours towards my certification talking to Uigenna, to ex Varrs and Teraghasts, Unneah resistance fighters, refugees of the Kakkahar flesh trade. Jassenah listened intently, rarely interrupting but obviously interested, as we strolled leisurely towards the club. It was many blocks away, but the weather was mild and the city was beautiful, so we didn’t mind. There was much to tell, anyway. I’d just about earned my license when we found ourselves at the Greco-Roman pillars flanking Olympia’s huge front doors.

“Goodness,” I said apologetically. “I’ve been rattling on, haven’t I?”

Jassenah gave my arm a reassuring pat. “It’s fine, love. I’ve been enjoying it.” Eyeing the line of dauntingly chic hara that snaked to the club entrance, he added, with some trepidation, “This isn’t the kind of place where they refuse to let you in if you don’t look sharp enough, is it?”

“It is,” I said, and quickly reassured, “But they won’t turn us away. You’ll see.”

Jassenah smiled uncertainly, and nervously smoothed an invisible wrinkle on the front of his crisp dress. But when we reached the door, the bouncer waved us inside without a second glance.

Within was all shifting, colorful lights, streaming between the Corinthian columns that supported the high mezzanine. Music throbbed from the powerful sound system, so loud it seemed to override my pulse and change the rhythm of my heart. It seemed as though all of the most beautiful hara in Immanion were there that night, though I knew it wasn’t even one percent of them. Jassenah gawked, turning on the spot, his cheeks flushed and his wide eyes drinking it all in. I could tell he felt out of place. He was telling himself he didn’t belong here, that he was only a small town hienama. He was worried he looked like somehar’s hostling, pathetically trying to recapture youth. He shouldn’t have fretted. He looked like a fairytale princess, all blushes and blue eyes and golden curls.

“C’mon,” I said, taking his hand, “Let me buy you a drink.”

He looked at me with absurd gratitude, as if I were his knight in shining armor come to his rescue, or maybe, as if I were a wizard king handing him the keys to my magical realm.

“I won’t say no,” he said.

PONCLAST

I’d been drowsing when the rap came at my door. It wasn’t late, and I wasn’t tired, but I’d listened to all my records and there was nothing else to do. I was sick of my own thoughts. Consciousness was painful, so I’d tried to escape it through sleep. After the knock, I lay staring at the ceiling for a few moments, trying to decide if I should resent this intrusion upon my rest.

“Enter,” I finally called.

The door opened, and in came Anders, looking even stiffer and more discomfited than usual. He was accompanied by a mirage.

Slowly, I raised myself on my elbow to take in the vision. The soume-har who stood behind my jailer was dressed in layers of floaty, sheer material of pink and white. His angelic face was luridly yet bewitchingly painted to exaggerate the femininity of his features. His cloud of dark hair was curled, and had roses in it. He smelled of roses, too—wet ones, dripping with rain. My mouth watered and my ‘lim twitched at the sight. He was a confection of a har.

“Tiahaar,” Anders said stonily, “This is Oriel. He has come to… provide for your needs.” He sounded as if he would choke on the words.

Poor Anders. This must be hard for him. I wished they could’ve sent somehar else.

“I see,” I said. “This is also with compliments from the Tigron, eh?”

Anders did not dignify this with a response.

“I will be directly outside the door,” he said. His voice shook a little, but his eyes were fierce—a warning. Varrish chivalry was not entirely dead in him, it seemed.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “I suspect this lovely creature is more durable than he looks. Isn’t that right, Oriel?”

Oriel smiled, but only with his mouth. He had a whore’s reserve, keeping back the tenderest parts of himself. I could already tell that he was steel under all that frippery. “Tiahaar,” he said, with a small curtsy.

“Leave us,” I said to Anders.

He was loath to go. For confirmation, he looked to the harlot, who nodded. “I’ll be just fine,” he cooed. “Tiahaar Ponclast will be on his best behavior. Won’t you, Tiahaar?”

It was now my turn to grin without feeling. “Naturally,” I said.

With a final glare, Anders excused himself.

I sat on the bed for a long moment, staring at the whore. He stared back at me, completely unabashed and evidently without fear. Perhaps he’d met monsters before. Perhaps he was just a fool.

I stood, and walked to the desk.

“Well,” I said, “Under normal circumstances I’d want to offer you a drink, but I’m afraid all they give me is water.”

“That’s quite all right.” His voice was melodious. “I only ever pretend to drink on the job, anyway.”

Few hara would probably accept a drink from me at this point, in any case. Wise. I put the Brahms on, and turned to face him. “How long will I be delighted by your company?”

He shrugged a bare shoulder. “However long it takes, within reason, whether that’s five minutes or a few hours. I’m not staying the night, but I’ll not be eying the clock, if that’s what worries you.”

“Good,” I said. “Then let’s talk first.”

He arched his lovely brows, and settled himself in the spot I indicated on the bed. “What do you want to talk about, Tiahaar?” he asked, letting his robe slip even further down his shoulder.

“Keep your clothes on,” I said, “for now.”

He pretended to pout, and pulled the robe back into place.

I realized I didn’t know what I wanted to talk about. I just wanted to chat, as if I was a normal har entertaining a pretty visitor. I almost asked him to pretend that I was nobody in particular. But that would’ve been too contrived, and I didn’t really think I deserved such consolation.

I sat myself down—not on the bed beside him, but on the chair, facing him.

“The money must be good,” I said, “For you to agree to this.”

“The money is good,” he admitted without shame, “But that’s not the only reason.”

I sneered. “Don’t tell me I’ve always been your dark fantasy.” I knew there were hara who thought about me, or about some pornographic caricature of me. Some of them had sent me letters. I had thrown them into the fire.

He tinkled a little laugh. “No! It’s sort of the reverse, actually.” His fingers crept up his long, bare throat, and twined in a ringlet of his hair. “Sometimes—often—hara pay me to pretend to be you. It’s sort of my specialty.”

I sat stunned for a moment, not sure I’d heard right. Then I began to laugh. I probably should’ve been offended, or disgusted, or even angry with him. But the absurdity of it was just too immense to permit any response other than hilarity. “Do you!” I exclaimed, once I’d caught my breath. “Not in that get-up, I hope.”

He shook his pretty head, making his curls bounce. “Of course not. I have many guises,” he said, with a sly smile. “You’d be surprised how ouana I can be, if the price is right.”

He was a kanene, then. Not a hieruna, not a healer. I was glad. I scooted the chair closer, until I could reach out and take his face in my hands. He did not resist me. I turned it from one side to the other, examining it, trying to see through the layers of make-up.

“Your eyes are the wrong color,” I said.

He shrugged again. “Most hara have only ever seen that one black-and-white photograph of you.”

I knew exactly the image he was talking about. It was very blown-out. He had a long face and dark hair, as I do, and that was about as much as you could tell about me from that photo. “Yes. Going by that picture alone, I can see it.” I dropped my hands. My fingertips had pale powder clinging to them. Frowning, I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket and wiped them. “You must be well-versed in chaitra and pelcia,” I remarked.

“Mostly chaitra,” he said, “But yes.”

That made sense, given the role he played, and what hara would expect of it. What they would expect of me. This was surreal. “Whatever do you do with all that hair, when you’re me?”

“I can make it all disappear under that little peaked cap,” he said. “You’d be surprised at how well.”

So he wore knock-off Varr leathers, then. That thought stirred powerful mixed feelings in me—rage at the disrespect for the uniform, mingled with disgust at the romanticization of what had been, in truth, so very sordid. I let out a harsh, shuddering breath. “I don’t think I want to hear any more about this,” I said drily, when I could speak.

He smiled again—almost a real one, this time. “Fair enough, Tiahaar.” After a moment he added, “If it’s any consolation, you’re nothing at all like what I expected.”

“Don’t be so quick to say that. I’ve barely touched you yet.”

He tilted his head to one side. “But that in itself is a surprise. I didn’t think you’d want to talk.”

A flash of anger lit my body like heat lightning. “Did you come to study me? For your… role?”

“Not exactly,” he said soothingly. “I was just curious.”

I gritted my teeth. “Will you ape my mannerisms? Add my patterns of speech to your performance?”

“No, Ponclast,” he replied gently, and his eyes were almost pitying. “This wouldn’t sell. You’re too… real.”

I could hear in his tone what he wanted to say—that my pain was stark-naked, raw and obvious, and that wasn’t what the customers paid for. They didn’t want me to be flesh, but some bloodless thing, malevolent and invincible, a creature of nightmare. Just as fast as lightning, my anger was gone, subsiding with a dark rumble into nothingness. Once, I had tried to be just such a beast. I had played the same role he was playing, and it had been just as artificial then as it was when he did it.

“Spread your legs,” I said.

He complied promptly. I slid my hands under his robe, up along his thighs, which were softer still than the flimsy material. I held his eyes as my fingers found him already soume, and reasonably wet. Perhaps he’d secretly smeared himself with lubricant before coming in. Perhaps he just knew the right things to think about.

“You’re not scared,” I said.

“No.” His gaze did not waver. His eyes were a remarkable hazel, green shot with amber and ochre.

I wanted to shove my fingers into him, make him moan and writhe and come apart, quivering, for me. Such a thing was probably permissible, and well within the bounds of what he’d come here for. Still I paused, gripped with fear. The smell of his ‘lam was like blood in the water, and I felt like a shark as I scented it. The urges that rose within me were predatory.

“I am,” I confessed. “Afraid.”

The moment I let the words slip, I was furious with myself, and mortified. I looked down, and withdrew my hands from under his clothes, clenching them into fists in my lap.

“You don’t know if you can control yourself,” he said. He sounded neither judgmental nor surprised.

Blood was pounding in my skull, and the weapon between my legs throbbed with hunger. “I’ve never had to,” I said.

He was quiet for a minute. Then I heard the rustle of fabric, and knew he was undressing. I didn’t dare to look. I felt nauseated by self-loathing and lust.

“You were right,” he said. “I am durable.” Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the robe drop to the floor around his ankles. It looked like a beautiful dead thing, a swan shot down. He stepped over it, moving towards me. The heat of his body, the smell of his sex, overwhelmed me. I kept my eyes stubbornly down.

“Ponclast,” he said softly, “Look at me.”

I was shaking. “I don’t know what will happen.”

He sighed, with what I realized was exasperation.

“Listen,” he said, and his tone had become sharp, “You’re a fully grown har. You have to learn sometime. You’ve been recently injured, and I could probably fight you off if I needed to. Besides, that handsome ouana-type outside the door will intervene if I need help. You might not get a better chance than this.”

He was right. I was still afraid. I still felt like a spring wound too tight, like powder too close to a flame. I wanted to leap to my feet, crush my mouth against his, wind my hands in his hair and—

“Step back,” I commanded.

He did not. I managed not to raise my voice, but it took an effort.

“I’m fucking serious, Oriel. Go lie on the bed. Give me a moment to get myself together, and then I’ll try.”

“Fair enough,” he repeated, and with a toss of his hair—the wind of which brushed my face—he padded away.

When I knew he was out of arm’s reach, I stood carefully, went over to the desk, and poured myself a glass of water from the tall pitcher. I splashed a little on my face. Then I undressed, carefully, with my back to him, taking time to carefully fold my suit. My pulse was still racing, but the precision of the task helped to ground me. Finally I turned, and looked upon him. His body was stretched out on the bed, bare and lovely, his soume-lam blooming invitingly at the intersection of his thighs. I was so aroused, and so uncomfortable in the situation, that I wondered if my spirit would actually vacate my body. Perhaps I would watch this encounter from outside of myself.

I made myself walk to the bed, and lie down beside him. He turned to me, wrapping me in his arms, and his skin seemed to scorch where it touched me. I pushed him back down, gently. The gentleness felt like a Herculean effort.

“No,” I said. “Be still, please.”

He very nearly rolled his eyes, but obeyed.

My gaze raked over him, all that tender smooth skin. I wanted to mark it, mar it with teeth and claws. I made myself kiss it instead, pressing my lips first to his velvety throat, then his collarbones, along the gentle swells of his pectoral muscles and down his hard belly. My breath came out in shaky gasps between the kisses.

“Ponclast,” he said, “It’s OK to be a little rough, you know.”

I paused, my lips poised over the pleasantly stubbled flesh of his pubic mound. “Don’t say that,” I ordered hoarsely. “Not yet.”

He gasped as I buried my face between his legs. I don’t think he’d expected me to do that. I needed to taste him. He was sour-sweet nectar. I pushed my tongue into him as far as I could, delving, probing, foreshadowing what I would do, soon, with my ouana-lim. He moaned, and the sound inflamed me. I wanted to make him feel, to inflict pleasure without mercy—

I surfaced, gasping and dripping in his juices.

“Oriel,” I said. “I have a question.”

His eyes, which had closed in pleasure or its counterfeit, opened and regarded me from beneath lush lashes. “Yes?” His voice was breathy.

I wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “I want to make you feel good, but I fear it might be an imposition. You’re here to work, not here to feel…”

I trailed off, awkward, not knowing if I sounded crazy to him, but he was nodding. “You want to learn, to practice on me, so you want to know if it’s real. But you know I might not want to let you peek behind the curtain.”

He understood what I was asking. I let out a breath of relief, and nodded, nuzzling my face against the inside of his thigh.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just look inside my head,” he said. “To check if I really liked it.”

“I’ve been with whores before,” I said. “It’s not polite to peek.”

He stared at me hard, chewing on his lip. “OK,” he said finally, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I won’t fake anything. Let’s see if your ego can take it.”

Something hot and fierce rose within me at the tone of his voice, but it wasn’t anything that frightened me. It was the sportsmen, responding to a friendly challenge. This was a safe kind of aggression, one I could control. I said nothing, just grinned at him before diving between his legs once more.

Do not be deceived. Despite my long and storied career in pelki, I am proficient at pleasuring the harish body. Some brutes take what they want without regard for what their victims feel. They usually do it quickly, and without sophistication. Compared to me, these are straightforward souls, almost innocent. I was never so simple a rapist. I always craved the response, chased the unwilling orgasm. I loved to see the shame in a har’s eyes when I sent his body into throes of unwanted ecstasy. I was familiar with that shame. I knew it could last a lifetime.

My skills, however ill-gotten, did not fail me now. In short order I had Oriel moaning and bucking, grinding his pelvis in my face. I laughed against him, with my mouth muffled by his flesh. I wanted to devour him, to eat his heart, but that was all right because somehow, it felt like I already was.

Without taking my mouth off him, I slipped two fingers into his ‘lam. The first sikra was easy to find. He let out a muffled scream as I teased it into hardness. Mercilessly, I moved on to the next.

“Ponclast,” he gasped, “If you want to roon me, don’t open any more of those. I get _really_ overstimulated.”

At the word ‘overstimulated’ I grew light-headed with lust, but I withdrew my fingers. I was, indeed, on my best behavior. I pressed my tongue into his hole one last time—I was just barely able to reach the first sikra with it, and he groaned—and then I raised my head and sat up. By the look of pained pleasure on his face, I judged him ready. My ouana-lim was hard and straining. I lowered myself over him and prepared to push inside, only to be rudely interrupted by a sharp twinge from my insides.

“Fuck,” I gasped, collapsing on the bed beside him.

“Are you all right?” His concern seemed genuine. “Is it your injury?”

I nodded, temporarily breathless with agony, but the sensation was already beginning to fade. “I think being on top might be too demanding for me at the moment,” I admitted, “Much as I am eager to pound your brains out. If we’re going to do this, you’ll have to ride.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” He asked. “I don’t want to aggravate your wound.”

I glared at him, and so did the single eye of my throbbing ouana-lim. “I think if I stay on my back, I’ll be fine. Anyway, it’s my funeral.”

“On the Tigron’s dime,” he said meaningfully, but he climbed on top and straddled me just the same. He was backlit by the ceiling light, softly haloing his exquisite body. His belly was taut, the muscles of his lean thighs engaged as he poised himself above me.

“Do it,” I growled.

He laughed. “So bossy,” he remarked.

Then he sank down, sheathing me in warmth and wet. I think my eyes rolled back. He moaned softly and clenched on me, and a wave of pleasure washed over my body. It felt like it had been forever, since this.

“Yes,” I hissed.

Skillfully, he bucked his hips. I snarled like an animal, and my fist lashed out and struck the pillow beside me.

“You really want to hurt me,” he murmured, “Don’t you?”

My teeth clenched, I nodded. I did. I couldn’t even begin to say how much. The smoothness, the softness of him was dizzying.

“It’s ok,” he said. “I like a little pain.”

I laughed sharply, and cut off by a gasp as he rolled his hips again. “I don’t know the meaning of ‘a little,’” I managed.

He smiled. “Let me show you.” He leaned forward over me, and his scented hair fell down and brushed my face. “Squeeze my nipples,” he said.

I reached up and grasped them, those tender pink buds. I rolled them between my fingertips. He let out a whimper, and his ‘lam spasmed around me. I increased the pressure, digging in my nails. I wanted to see them weeping blood. He endured this for only a second before swatting my hands away.

“That’s too much.”

I dropped my hands, frustrated and ashamed. “I told you.”

His hips stilled as he looked down at me, seeming neither intimidated nor impressed. “So you’re a sadist. So what? Know what a safeword is?”

I grimaced. “That’s so fucking artificial.” My ‘lim ached. “Just shut up and ride me.”

His lips curved up, and his eyes glittered mischievously. “Only if you slap my ass.”

I’d had enough. He asked for it. At this angle, I couldn’t hit him full force, which was probably for the best. I’d rather have been behind him, so I could put all my strength into it, with my gloves on to save my palms from stinging. Yet even as it was, his yelp was satisfying. Better yet was the way his ‘lam squeezed involuntarily in response to the pain. I hit him again, with both hands, one smacking into each of his cheeks.

“C’mon, slut,” I growled. “I’m hitting you, and you promised you’d ride.”

He did, with great gusto, emitting sweet little shrieks as I continued to spank him. I could feel his flesh warming beneath my ministrations, and knew it was reddening as well. I hoped he’d bruise. I wondered what Anders thought, if he was listening. Part of me worried that he was about to burst through the door at any moment. Most of me was focused on the beautiful har wrapped around my ouana-lim. As the pleasure built inexorably, I left off hitting him and grabbed a fistful of the hair the hung down behind his back, and tugged hard, forcing his lovely throat back into an arch. My other hand crept between his legs.

“Cum on me,” I commanded, and he did, breaking apart, his throes squeezing my shaft until I, too, exploded, flooding him with my aren. I roared as I did so, and pulled even harder on his hair, forcing every centimeter of myself into him until my spasms had ceased.

I let go of his hair, and he collapsed beside me, gently massaging his own tender scalp.

“Not bad,” he allowed grudgingly.

I groped for what remained of my cigar, and re-lit it. “No,” I agreed. “It wasn’t bad, if a little tame for me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you mind?” he asked, flapping his hand in front of his nose. “That thing stinks.”

“I do mind, actually,” I said, around the cigar between my teeth. “It’s not like you’ll get cancer. You’re being paid enough, I hope, to deal with it.”

He coughed, rather melodramatically I thought, but did not protest further. “You know,” he said, “You’ll make a fine lover for somehar, someday, if they’re into that sort of thing. Provided you can keep your head out of your ass.” 

“Thanks,” I said drily. “I think.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then: “Tell me what you really wanted to do to me.”

I laughed. “You don’t want to hear it.”

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at me. “Try me.”

Fine. He was asking, and I was sick of restraining myself. I closed my eyes and conjured up the vision. “I see you tightly bound, and lying on white satin sheets.”

“So far, so good.”

I laughed softly, in the back of my throat. “I take a straight razor, and I cut you everywhere. Slashes all over your lovely, smooth skin. As I fuck you, I wallow in your blood. Lick it up, drink it in. Smear it all over us. Cover my fingers with it, and force them into your mouth.”

“Rough on the white sheets,” he commented.

“Historically, I have been, yes. In Fulminir I had hara to clean up after me.” I took a drag on the cigar, then continued, “I’d open up every single sikra until you felt like a single raw nerve. I’d make you cum on my ‘lim until you couldn’t stand it, and then I’d make you cum some more. Then I’d put my pearl in you, and leave you there, sobbing.”

“What if I didn’t cry?” he asked.

“You can make any har cry,” I said dismissively. “It’s not even difficult. You just have to be willing to do what it takes. If you didn’t weep for me, I’d just pull out your fingernails or something.”

“I wouldn’t like that,” he said drily.

I gestured eloquently with the cigar between my fingers. “See?”

He sat up, and started to put on his clothes, to adjust the flowers in his hair. I didn’t stop him.

“What happened to you, Ponclast?” he asked as he pulled on his robes. “What made you this way?”

I was quiet. Even my breath had stilled.

He twisted his head around to look at me over his shoulder. “I’m just a lowly kanene. What’s the harm in telling me?”

“Some stories,” I said, “I don’t tell. Most of the hara who know them are dead now, and I like it that way.”

He shrugged his patented shrug, and tossed his hair. “Suit yourself,” he said, “Although you might want to reconsider that stance now that you’re in therapy.”

I stared at the cherry of my cigar until the afterimage burned into my vision. Maybe he was right. And what was the harm? Nohar would believe him. After all, he was just a whore.

“Do you know what a baseball bat is?” I asked. My voice sounded strange, as if it wasn’t coming out of me.

“Sort of,” he said. “Never seen one. Like a big club, wasn’t it?”

I nodded slowly, still staring into the embers as if I could see all of hell in them.

“I can confirm that, when the thick end is shoved in without sufficient lubrication, it hurts worse than a sword.”

It was his turn to be quiet. Eventually, he gently squeezed my hand.

“I’ll take that to my grave,” he said.

My eyes stung. It must have been the smoke. “Thank you,” I said. I still didn’t look at him.

He bent down and kissed me lightly on the brow. “Be well, Ponclast,” he said. “You’re not really so bad.”

It was the most insane thing anyhar had ever said to me. I did not respond. He left. I kept staring at my cigar without smoking it until I was too sleepy to keep my eyes open, then I laid it in the ashtray and allowed myself to sink into blackness.

GESARIL

I was five drinks in, and doing a spirited impression of Ponclast, much to Jassenah’s delight.

“So then he says, ‘Share breath with me, and I will show you how it was,’ just like that!” I made my voice deep and exaggeratedly masculine, and tried to mimic his arrogant pose, his arched brow.

Jassenah laughed. “Just like that, eh?”

“Well, except he sounded Megalithican,” I admitted, “But yeah.”

“Dear Ag,” said Jassenah sympathetically, “I might’ve decked him.”

He wouldn’t have, and we both knew it. Jassenah would’ve stayed professional. He would’ve just laughed, and asked Ponclast how it made him feel. But I appreciated his expression of empathy. I grew somber, staring down into my mixed drink, which was poisonous green and had fruit floating in it.

“I shouldn’t have left, Jassenah. He was just trying to get a reaction. I shouldn’t have given him one.”

Jassenah reached over and squeezed my hand comfortingly. We’d worked up a sweat while dancing, and the spicy scent of his perspiration mingled pleasantly with his sweet perfume.

“He’s had a lot of practice,” Jassenah said. “He’s a torturer, remember? Unless you’ve had training standing up to enhanced interrogation techniques, I wouldn’t feel too bad about it.”

The words were not reassuring. I’d treated war criminals before. I shouldn’t have felt so out of my depth. But most of those hara did what they did from perceived necessity, and much of the time, they’d barely bothered to get their own hands dirty. Most of them, also, had been cowards, without their cronies to back them up. I popped a candied cherry in my mouth and absent-mindedly tied the stem with my tongue while I thought.

“He’s a tricky one,” I admitted finally. “A lot of the hara I’ve worked with, even the big leaders who’ve done really bad things, are normal enough when you get down to it. Psychologically, Ponclast is more like a serial killer than a politician.”

“That sounds right,” Jassenah admitted. “Do you think he’s a sociopath?”

I frowned, and shook my head. “No, he feels too much, and I think he has remorse. Not that he’s shown it. He makes a lot of effort to cover it up.” I popped the knotted stem out of my mouth and plopped it down on my cocktail napkin.

“Nice,” said Jassenah, and I blushed, hoping he didn’t think I’d been trying to show off what my tongue can do. To cover the awkward moment, I continued:

“If we’re thinking about him in terms of old hume diagnoses, I’d say he’s got a sadistic personality. Tyrannical type.”

“Fits,” Jassenah admitted.

“There’s something about causing pain that he really relies on,” I said. “It’s more than a sex thing, though there is that.”

“Control,” Jassenah suggested, and sipped at his drink.

“Something happened to him,” I said. “Something that effected him really profoundly. He’s the kind of har who has pieces of him missing.” I stared blankly at the bottles behind the bar, seeing Ponclast’s face instead. “I dunno,” I said at last. “What’s Abrimel like?”

Jassenah set his glass down, empty, with a clink. “Like a moth,” he said, “Drawn by a big, bright light. Burning up as he flaps about.”

I winced. Jassenah flipped back his hair and stood up.

“He’s a poor little rich har,” he said. “Bit of a snob, bit of a whiny little shite. He has depression, and he’s been traumatized, but there’s nothing really wrong with him.” He held out his hands to me. “I need a break from talking shop,” he said. “Let’s dance some more.”


	4. Chapter 4

**GESARIL**

In spite of my late night, I arrived punctually at the clinic for Ponclast’s appointment the next day. Anders, who I was seeing a lot of, escorted me to the room. 

“How’s he been today?” I asked as we walked. 

Anders grimaced in distaste. “Dictatorial. I don’t know what that means about his mood. He’s demanded more records, and a bunch of books. The Tigron wants him to get whatever he asks for, so I have my hara running all over Immanion chasing down his shopping list.”

“Don’t let him push you around,” I said. 

Anders smiled thinly. “Ponclast, or the Tigron?” 

I didn’t have time to respond to this sardonic query, for we had reached Ponclast’s room. Anders took a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door, which was triple-bolted. I thought that seemed silly and a bit excessive for one injured har. 

“Good luck,” he said to me. “I’ll be right outside.” 

I swallowed nervously, smoothed my hair, and yanked a loose thread out of my cuff. Then I knocked.

“Enter,” came the already familiar voice. 

I opened the door and stepped inside. 

Ponclast was sitting at his desk, facing the door. He had a quill in his hand, poised over a sheaf of paper. His shoulders looked tense. When he saw me, he stood up immediately. 

“Gesaril,” he exclaimed, in a voice almost warm. “Please.” He gestured to other chair. 

Warily, I sat. Ponclast remained standing, in an unconscious parade rest, his with hands behind his back. He stared down at me intently. He was dressed, today, in another sharp suit—very dark green, this time. The clothes were immaculate, but his eyes looked hollow, as if he’d slept badly. 

“I’m relieved,” he said, putting a name to the strange expression on his face. “I thought you might not come back.”

I shrugged. My papers were held in my lap, as if unconsciously shielding my crotch. Noticing this defensive posture, I reached over and placed them on the desk. “I’m not so easy to scare off,” I said. 

He smiled, then—not a smile like his cold ones from yesterday, but small and strange. Tentative. “So I see.” He came around to the front of the desk, and half sat on it, half-leaned against it. It was a power posture. He loomed over me, and though there were a couple of feet between us, his fly was placed at my eye level.

“I behaved badly,” he said. “Allow me to apologize.”

“Accepted,” I said breezily. 

He looked taken aback, as if surprised that was all there was to it. I laughed. 

“See? It’s not so hard.”

His small smile took on a wistful quality. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose not.”

I sighed. “Would you mind sitting down properly? I don’t like craning my neck.”

“Oh.” He seemed almost flustered. “Naturally.” He went back around the desk and seated himself. I observed this reaction with interest. It didn’t seem his masterful posture had been a conscious attempt to bully or intimidate. He moved as if he’d just woken up to found himself someplace strange.

“So, are you ready to cut the bullshit and begin?” I asked, once he’d got himself settled.

His eyes narrowed in appreciation. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve decided what to do with my hair.”

For a moment I was confused, because he’d just had it cut. Then I remembered. Of course. “What’s that?” 

He gestured to the wall above his bed. I followed with my eyes, and saw a single long plait tacked up against the plaster. “I’m keeping that,” he said, “to remind me of where I’ve been. The rest I can throw away.”

I nodded. “That’s good,” I said. It was a little eccentric, but it seemed a surprisingly healthy compromise. Then a thought occurred to me, and a wicked grin cracked my face. “Feel up for a challenge?”

His brows lifted. He steepled hands and leaned his chin on them, and his eyes invited me to continue. 

“There’s a charity,” I said, “For hume children. They get diseases that makes their hair fall out. Hara donate their hair, to make wigs… what?”

He was making choked noises. It took me a moment to realize he was laughing. 

“Locks of Love?” He asked incredulously. 

I wrinkled my brow in confusion. “Excuse me?”

He smirked. “Sorry, I’m dating myself again. There used to be an organization called that, that did the same thing. Way back before… oh, before Wraeththu. Never mind.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, contemplatively. “Fine,” he said at last. “I’m willing. They can have it if they want it. It’s probably reeking with bad psychic energy.”

“I’m sure it can be cleansed,” I said. 

He vented a bitter laugh. “Let’s keep it an anonymous donation, shall we? A bit of hair is a very weak amends for a genocide. Hardly a PR coup.”

“It’s a start,” I said. “A very small one, but you must begin somewhere.”

“Hm.” He subsided into silence. “You know,” he said at length, “a lot of hara don’t care what I did to the humes. If they were around at the time, most of them were doing the same things, and if they were born later, they don’t think about it.” His eyes, grey and bleak, fixed on my face. “We virtually exterminated a species,” he said, “the species I was born to.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I considered myself progressive on issues of human welfare, but to be quite honest, I didn’t give them a lot of thought. They were such a small minority these days, especially now that we knew how to incept women.

“I remember,” he said, his gaze distant, “a raid on Christmas day—that was what Natalia was, before. It was early on in the days of Varr. We were a starving, rag-tag band with no permanent settlements. We struck the humes on their feast day because we knew there would be food, because we knew they would be unprepared. We butchered them all, parents and children alike. Didn’t even bother to incept the young men. We knew they would hate us too much, for what we’d done. Afterwards, we settled down in front of their hearths. Pulled roasted birds and trays of Christmas cookies out of their ovens. We ate next to the bodies of the little children. It haunts me still. Blood and wrapping paper, tinny music on their radios, tidings of comfort and joy. We were so glad to be alive and fed, we barely thought anything of it.”

There it was, I thought— the remorse I’d suspected lay beneath the ice. 

“Do you really think, Gesaril, that a har like me can be redeemed?”

I blinked at the question. He’d seemed so far away, lost in that moment in the past, that I was surprised he’d addressed me directly. 

“I think,” I said carefully, “that right now you feel broken. And maybe you are. I’m here to help you pick up the pieces. Look at them, put them back together. Not the way they were, but as something new. A mosaic, maybe.”

During this speech, he’d gone still. His lips had thinned, and his nostrils flared. 

“A mosaic?” He demanded when I was done. “Really?”

I cocked my head. “What’s the matter? Is that imagery too fluffy for you?”

“No,” he said forcefully, and I could tell he was really upset. “It’s far too apt.” He pushed back his chair, and started pacing. “I lie in pieces, sharp shards. Somehar picks them up and presses them into cement, so the edges can’t cut anyone. And there they stay. Something that once had a purpose is transformed into a static spectacle, a thing to be put on display to make others feel better about brokenness.”

“Ah,” I said. “I think I see.”

He turned on his heel and faced me. His fists were clenched, but not as if he meant to strike with them. It seemed more like he was clutching at straws. 

“I can’t be that,” he said. “That thing the Gelaming want me to be. I must be of use as something more than an object lesson, a museum piece…”

“Ponclast,” I said, “Sit down. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He sneered, but dropped back into his chair. “Please tell me that you understand this.”

This was another test, I realized—a much more important one than the gauntlet of little ordeals he’d thrown down for me yesterday. I tried not to resent that. 

“I think I do,” I said. “You aren’t interested in anything false or performative. You don’t want to look good if you can’t be good, and being good, to you, requires taking meaningful actions.”

He exhaled deeply and half slumped on the desk. “I’m very glad you came back,” he said. “After you left yesterday, I started to contemplate what kind of soft-spoken, pastel-clad Gelaming automaton they might send in, and I almost despaired.”

I thought we might have a chance to really get somewhere. I leaned forward slightly, to project my interest.

“Why did you try to run me off, then?” I asked. “Did you want to make sure I could handle you?”

His brows drew down as he seemed to seriously consider the question. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t expect any har to be able to handle me, not really. It’s like I was saying to, ah, somehar, last night…” to my surprise, he flushed slightly at the admission he’d had company, “…anyone can be broken. There’s no real trick to it.”

“I’m glad they sent you an aruna partner,” I said. “It was my recommendation.” Then I wondered why I had spoken. Was I relishing his discomfort?

He glowered, but with a certain good humor. “Thanks,” he said drily. “I believe we were discussing the impulse to needle.”

He’d picked up on it, then—my mean little pleasure in his embarrassment. Not good. I would have to remember that I was fairly transparent to this client. Chastised, I nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“I don’t know why I do it,” he said. “Why do you think you do it?” 

It wasn’t a jibe. He sounded genuinely curious. I chewed the inside of my lip and thought about it. Why indeed? Well, I knew I didn’t usually snipe at others when I was in a good mood. 

“It makes me feel better,” I admitted. “I usually do it when I’m feeling a bit shit.”

He nodded. “That would explain why I do it all the time,” he remarked, with the ghost of a smile. “It does give me a little hit of pleasure. And there isn’t a lot of pleasure in my life. It relieves the… grayness.” He gestured vaguely, as if to indicate the air itself.

I understood all too well. Depression. I’d been in that grayness which was sometimes even worse than the blackness of despair. Of course he was depressed, among other things. He’d spent multiple decades of his existence in various prisons. He had children-- hundreds-- who didn’t speak to him. He spent a lot of time alone, with only the horrors in his head for company. 

“Sometimes,” I said, “We’ll do anything for a little but of serotonin.”

He looked momentarily diverted. “Is it still serotonin? Or do we have different chemicals?” 

I shrugged. “Honestly we’re not sure. Harish neuroscience is a brand new field. As a therapist I refer to things like dopamine and serotonin the way that, say, Carl Jung might’ve used alchemical terminology to discuss human psychology. It may not be strictly chemically accurate, but it gets the point across.”

“I’d taken you for more of a post-Freudian,” he said. “You know. Lacan. Kristeva.” 

I raised my eyebrows. “Not names I expected to hear from you, I will admit…”

“I spent what felt like centuries in a library,” he retorted, a bit snippily. “What did you think I did with my time? I wasn’t jerking my ‘lim, I’ll tell you that much. Couldn’t get it up, there.” 

He stood, and started pacing. He’d become agitated, but I didn’t feel as if I was losing him. In fact, this seemed, finally, like a real starting point. 

“I think it would be good to talk about the library,” I said, “If you feel ready. We should really go into what happened, and how you ended up in this facility.”

He paused in his pacing. His face was frozen, closed-off-- pensieve. He seemed to be warily considering my words. Finally, he nodded once. He went to the window and looked out, speaking with his back to me. 

“Shaa Lemul was good for me, I suppose, for a time. When I first arrived in that place, it suppressed all passions. It was a sleeping world, a realm of stasis and contemplation. It made me be still. Forced me to experience calm, and clarity.”

I saw tension in the lines of his shoulders. His hands were clasped together at the small of his back-- that military stance, that parade rest again-- but they were gripping each other too tight, the knuckles whitened. What a gift serenity must have been to a har like this!

“But something changed,” I said. 

“I changed it.” There is no tone in his voice. “At first I thought it was the awakening of the giant, the denizen who slumbered there, that did it. But thinking back, it actually started with me. I had the impulse to go looking for answers. Lileem never did. My curiosity brought us to Ta Ke. Without that passion, that reawakened drive, we never would have found him.”

He turned from the window, back towards me. His profile was silhouetted, for a moment, against the glare of afternoon light. “Something about that place is deeply attuned to me. It always spoke to me very directly. The books… they shift, they change, they show you what it wants you to see. Lileem found all manner of knowledge in them, always seemingly random. Perhaps that is because her curiosity was so broad and generalized. She is a great observer. She wants to know everything.” He frowned slightly.

“In my case… the library read me. While Lileem discovered books that recorded strange knowledge and histories from regions unknown to us, books of time and destiny never written by any living hand, the books I found were often familiar. They came from our plane. Many were written by humes.” He laughed softly. “When I first came, there was a definite theme to the tomes I found.  _ The Mass Psychology of Fascism  _ by Wilhelm Reich.  _ Survival in Auschwitz  _ by Primo Levi.  _ Night  _ by Elie Weisel. The library was showing me myself, in the dark mirror of history.” 

Briefly, his eyes shuddered closed. “Would you believe me if I told you I’d had no idea? I only had a tenth grade education. I was incepted while I was still in high school. And the place I grew up, the Safe Zone-- well, it was an authoritarian society of its own, tightly controlled and under strict surveillance. The school was an institution of the preparatory type. We were being groomed to be the stewards of that order, its enforcers. They taught us to read  _ 1984  _ as the tragic story of a selfish, immature man incapable of adapting to the needs of his society…” he trailed off. More emotion had crept into his voice. It sounded like bitterness and loathing. “I never thought of myself as a fascist. I was too ignorant to do so. With Varr, I simply reinvented the wheel.” He glanced at me sharply. “This is not an excuse, by the way.”

I was enthralled. I’d forgotten to take notes during this speech, and had simply been chewing on my pen, staring at him. I removed it guiltily from my mouth. He laughed at the gesture, and scorn flashed briefly in his eyes. 

“Is this interesting to you, Gesaril? A bright, studious har like you must be thrilled by such access to a figure of history. Were you dreaming of book deals just now?”

I could’ve become defensive. Instead I just shrugged. “I wasn’t,” I said, “But now that you mention it…”

He held my gaze with his cold glare for a long moment. Then he laughed, and went back to his chair. 

“I wouldn’t blame you,” he said. “I might even authorize it, if you’re very good.” 

Condescension, innuendo, or both? I let it slide off me. 

“So the library was teaching you about yourself,” I prompted.

“Yes.” He steepled his hands on the desk. “But eventually, I think it started to learn from me as well. How to be alive. How to feel.” He sighed softly. “It was like Gebaddon, in that way. It molded me, and then I molded it. It’s something I do. I leave my impression on places. It’s an automatic process. I did the same with Fulminir, and with many a bloody fallow field. Reflections of my blasted soul.” His eyes, which had gone distant, refocused. “Anyway. The library started to wake up. There was weather. Motion. Things started to grow out of the ground. It began to happen more rapidly when Abrimel came. My passions were fully awakened then. I even wanted aruna. But he…” a another sigh, this one gustier, and he pushed his chair back from the table, “I don’t know if Shaa Lemul affected his libido in a way it had ceased to affect mine, or if he was afraid of me, or I was too different, or he simply found he didn’t like me so much as he’d liked the idea of me… anyway, he wasn’t interested. And things got bad very quickly.”

His expression had darkened. 

“Got bad, how?” I asked, when several moments passed and he still did not speak.

“Isn’t that part in my file?” He demanded testily. 

“Yes,” I said, “but I’d really rather hear it in your words.”

His face was grim and drawn. He looked almost aged, haggard with emotion. “In my words. Fine. The weather began to respond to my internal state.” He let out a long, shaky breath. “I do have some self control— I used to have quite a lot, in fact— but it didn’t matter. Bree would do or say something to irritate me. I would do the right thing: keep my voice low, my expression calm, bite back the cutting words. It didn’t matter. My feelings were reflected in the sky. It stormed when I was angry, rained when I wanted to weep. Bree is no fool. He figured out what was going on.”

I tried to imagine what it would be like to be trapped in a world controlled by another’s passions. “That must have been terrifying for him.”

“It was terrifying for  _ me _ ,” Ponclast’s voice rose sharply, a sudden spike of dangerous, wounded femininity. “He wouldn’t believe I wasn’t doing it on purpose. When the ground shook, when the wind howled, I was afraid, too. It happened  _ because _ I was afraid. That’s what it  _ meant _ .” He dropped his face into his hands. “I just wanted him to hold me,” he choked. 

I contemplated him, in his pain. It was real enough, that much was obvious. I made note, however, of how swift he’d been to shove Abrimel’s suffering aside to focus on his own. Narcissism? I didn’t think so. There was more going on, and I thought I knew what. 

“Ponclast,” I said, “Are you ready to do something really hard?”

His face was still buried in his hands, but he splayed his fingers so he could stare at me between them. His eyes were red. “Now?” His muffled voice was incredulous.

“You’re not weak,” I said. “I believe you can.”

His hands dropped away from his face. “You are the most manipulative har I have ever met,” he said in wonder. Tears streaked his face, but his mouth did not tremble. 

“Maybe,” I said lightly, “but I use my powers for good. Now, do you want to try or not?” 

His hands groped along the desk until he found his ashtray, with what remained of his cigar. About to light it, he paused. “Do you mind?” He asked.

“Not if it helps you do the work,” I said.

He lit it and dragged. I watched that brittle, frayed soume har, that beleaguered hostling and consort who I had glimpsed so briefly, dissolve before my eyes, replaced again by icy, masculine composure. 

“Shoot,” he said. 

“I want you to go back to Abrimel’s pain in a moment,” I said, “Instead of your own.” He stiffened slightly, and I continued quickly, “I know, I know. Everyhar is always talking about your victims. Throwing their suffering in your face. Nobody sees your hurt amid all the hurt you’ve caused. Nobody cares. But I see it, Ponclast. And I do care.”

He was silent, unreadable, a stare so stony it could turn you to stone— a basilisk, a Medusa. It would’ve been so easy to wither under that glare, to just shut my mouth the way he wanted me to. For the first time since I’d met him, I actually wondered if he might hurt me. I was cutting close to the bone. I swallowed hard, and went on. 

“Maybe, long ago, it was a way to hide your pain. You could bury it under all those bodies. But it worked too well, and now, when you want it to be seen, it stays invisible.” 

His fingers twitched on the desk. A world of menace in a tiny gesture. I would not be deterred. 

“The thing is, Ponclast, as long as you keep making new victims, nohar will care. Nohar will give you empathy, and that will be understandable, because you won’t really deserve it. The only way out of this mess is to start caring about the pain you have caused.”

He said, his voice flat, “Get out.” 

I wanted to. I held my ground, even though I had an urge to physically grab on to my chair to keep myself in place. “No,” I said. “Let’s talk about how you hurt Abrimel. How you scared him.”

The explosion came. He hurled his ashtray across the room. It shattered against the wall behind his bed. He was on his feet, knocking over his chair, and it hit the floor with a crash. He came at me. I should have bolted for the exit. That would’ve been the sane thing to do. Instead, I threw my arms around him. 

He froze in my embrace. His body was taut and trembling, vibrating like a plucked string. I hugged him tight, pinning his arms against his body, pressing my face against his shoulder. He was taller than me, but not as much taller as I’d thought. I breathed slowly and deeply against him, my eyes closed, imagining the ray of light that comes down from the center of the universe. I became a channel. It flowed through me, into him. In a few moments, I felt him begin to relax. Beneath his rage was panic, and below that,pain, so much pain, old and rotten and festering and fresh and raw and red. I could feel it all. 

I tilted back my head to look at him. He was staring down at me with parted lips. It suddenly seemed as if we were about to kiss, that our lips would be magnetically drawn together by sheer proximity. I drew a shaky breath.

Blessedly, the door flew open. Anders stood there with his gun drawn. This was no ordinary weapon—agmara energy crackled along its barrel. Nohar would bother pointing a normal gun at Ponclast. He was Nahir Nuri. The Gelaming would have armed his guard with something special.  _ A silver bullet for the monster _ . 

Ponclast, as if by reflex, grabbed my waist and spun me around between him and Anders, ensuring there would be no clear shot.

“Ponclast!” I reprimanded, and pulled away from him. “We’re fine, Anders,” I said to the guard. “Put the gun down.”

He didn’t lower the weapon. “Step away from him,” he said, “and let me hear you say that again.” His trigger finger looked very twitchy. 

I sighed, and obeyed, walking all the way over to Anders.

“We’re fine,” I repeated. “He didn’t hurt me. I grabbed him to calm him down. He needs a new ash tray, that’s all.”

Ponclast laughed sharply. “He wants to take the shot,” he said. “He’s dreamed about this. He’s been waiting a long time for such a chance.” He leaned back against the desk in his power pose, chin tilted up to mockingly expose his throat. “Go ahead, Anders. Do us all a favor. Be a hero. Your friends at the bar will be buying tonight, and for ages to come.”

Anders looked from him, and back to me, and muttered a curse under his breath. He clicked on the safety and returned the weapon to its holster. 

“I’m leaving the door open,” he said. 

I started to protest, but Ponclast waved me off. “Fine,” he said. To me he added archly, “he might find it educational.”

I said nothing. I was shaking. Now that the crisis had passed, it was beginning to sink in what had happened— how sudden and violent it had all been. Ponclast looked down his nose at me and smirked knowingly. 

“Sit down,” he said. I sank into my seat. He poured me a glass of water and handed it to me. Then he walked back around the desk and righted his own chair. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was an unseemly outburst.” 

I clutched my glass of water without drinking. It’s surface was vibrating from the violent trembling of my hands. Ponclast had gone for me. We’d almost kissed. Anders had been ready to pull the trigger. It was too much to verbalize. “You used me as a meat shield,” I managed. 

“Instinct,” he shrugged. “Don’t take it too personally. I knew he wouldn’t shoot you.” He gestured to my water. “You should drink that.”

Rebelliously, I set the glass down on the desk instead. Now that I was done being relieved that he hadn’t got his brains blown out right before my eyes, I was upset with him. “D’you see how this is exactly what we were just talking about?” I demanded. “When you act this way nohar has the chance to empathize with you. You’re just a threat to neutralize.” 

He acted like he was too busy straightening his tie to answer. 

“And what were you playing at, telling him to take the shot?” I demanded. “Are you suicidal again?”

He smoothed his jacket and checked his cuffs before replying. 

“No,” he said, “I was empathizing with my victims.”

My jaw dropped. “And they’d want you dead.”

His nostrils flared. It was a mannerism of his I was starting to recognize. It meant he was impatient. “I see merit in their perspective.”

I shook my head slowly. “Unbelievable,” I said. “It is truly incredible how arse-backwards you have it.”

His chin jerked up. “What?” He looked angry, but I’d caught his interest.

“We’re talking about Abrimel,” I said, “even if you don’t mean to talk about him, we are. This is how you think of yourself in relation to him. You’re bad news. He’d be better off without you.”

It was barely perceptible, but he flinched. 

“You can’t buy your redemption with self destruction, Ponclast. That’s just more violence and cruelty to the ones who love you.”

“One,” he corrected. “Only one har loves me.”

I rolled my eyes. 

He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, at the artwork on the walls, anywhere but my face. “I know,” he admitted. “Compared to the work ahead of me, death is the easy way out. But that doesn’t mean I deserve to live, Gesaril.” His eyes finally came down meet mine, and he smiled a bleak smile. 

I huffed. “You’re thinking like a Varr,” I said. “Turning yourself into an undesirable to be exterminated. That won’t work either. And it’s still a lot less scary than really looking at how you hurt Abrimel, yeah?” 

The room had gone dim, as if the sun had moved behind a cloud. Ponclast sucked in his cheeks while he thought. 

“You’re right,” he finally said. 

It was an admission that had cost him a lot. I hoped, someday soon, he might realize how much it could buy him. 

“So tell me,” I said. “From Abrimel’s perspective. What do you think he experienced in Shaa Lemul?”

His voice was soft and low as he answered. “To him, I must have seemed an angry God, all powerful. I could smite him with lightning or crush him with falling stones. He was alone in that world, with only me for company, and my will, and my rage, were everywhere.” 

I nodded. With a glance towards the open door, and the profile of the har visible through it, I scooted my chair closer to Ponclast and spoke quietly. “And once you came back, Ponclast? Once he’d brought you back to try to save you? What do you think it did to him the night you tried to destroy yourself?”

“I already know that,” he said. “I saw it on his face. I might as well have stuck the sword in him.” 

I was glad he was answering my questions. It seemed his little tantrum had left him more willing to do the work. But I wanted to dig in more. 

“And do you think,” I asked, “he had any idea why you did it? Or why there were storms in Shaa Lemul?”

He stared at his hands. Was he seeing blood on them? Was that why he kept them so clean, and why he so often wore the gloves?

“No,” he said. “How could he? I never told him.”

I smiled, satisfied. “And that,” I said, “was the worst part of all.”

***

The session lasted a little longer. There wasn’t much more of note. I told him the listeners had been taken off of Abrimel. He was pleased about that, and entirely unsurprised that he himself had not been relieved of surveillance. “They aren’t going to do that,” was his remark. “They can’t.” I left him in a calmer mood, with a promise to return tomorrow. 

Anders gave me a reserved nod as I walked out the door. He looked exhausted as he locked it behind me.

“When will you be relieved?” I asked him. 

He glanced at the clock down the hall. “Not for couple more hours,” he said. 

I wanted him to have the rest of the day off, but I resisted saying so. He was a soldier. It was all in the line of duty. I bid him a good afternoon and walked out of the clinic into the sunlight. Jassenah had invited me to dinner at his place. I was looking forward to it. 

**PONCLAST**

Gesaril had given me a lot to think about. Not all of it was his words. Those I was less than eager to contemplate. I focused instead on that moment when he’d wrapped his arms around me, pinning mine to my sides. Our breaths had almost mingled. Our lips had almost touched. 

Thinking of it now, I shivered. He’d done for me what Abrimel couldn’t or wouldn’t do, up in Shaa Lemul. He’d held me in the midst of my tempest, calmed me with his firm touch. 

My cheeks burned as I realized that, in that moment, I’d wanted Gesaril to take me. Previously I’d been attracted to his soume side, the femininity I perceived in him. But when he’d grabbed me like that, I’d felt something different. Looking at him-- even if I did have to look down-- I’d suddenly seen something like what they used to call ‘a real man.’ Somebody with strength and guts who wasn’t about to tolerate my nonsense. It had made me weak in the knees.

Glancing at the clock, I realized it was time to use my ‘dilator.’ This suddenly seemed like a much more appealing prospect than it had in the last few days. My only regret was that I would have to be gentle with myself. 

I disrobed and lay down on my bed. There were a few shards of glass on the bedding, from when the ashtray had shattered against the wall. I pulled back the duvet and shook them off onto the floor, to be dealt with later. For now, I had more pressing things on my mind.

I applied the cold, medical-grade lubricant to the cold, surgical steel implement, and slid it inside me. The temperature was initially unpleasant, but it warmed quickly to my body. Other than that, it didn’t feel too bad. I was healing quickly, as hara are wont to do. There was no pain. Just a bit of tightness. 

I closed my eyes and imagined I was on my back amid the moss and leaves of Gebaddon. It was the same thing I always thought of when I was soume-- the smell of the earth, the wildness of that place. Usually I thought about my Teraghasts coming to me, drawn by my psychic call, the metaphysical reek of my lusting cunt. They would clamber atop me one after the other, rut in me like savage beasts, fill me with pearls. I’d discovered I could carry two or three at a time, all from different fathers. It turned me on to remain in that state. It was a wallowing in degradation, a sensuous surrender to my despair. Often, as soon as I had expelled a pearl from between my thighs, I’d have somehar ready to mount me and ravish my still bleeding gash. 

This time, I did not think of Teraghasts, but of Gesaril coming to me in the cursed forest. I saw him naked, a wood nymph, a beautiful child of the earth. My breath quickened as I imagined him burying his pretty face between my legs, preparing me with his tongue before coming up bloody and smeared in my scent. He would slide into me slowly, so torturously slowly, holding me down while I writhed on him, desperate for harder and more. In my fantasy he’d be strong and agile enough to keep me pinned and stay clear of my grasping claws and gnashing teeth. He’d open me skillfully, the way his teacher had once opened him. I would break apart for him again and again until inevitably, the last sikra would yield. The cauldron would open. He would pour his essence into the heart of me, and then abandon me there among the roots, condemned to swell with his pearl. 

I made myself cum to that, repeatedly, gushing each time. When I finally lifted my head, I saw the sheets stained with soume juices tinted pink. I hadn’t been gentle enough. I’d made myself bleed a little. Oh well. With an unrepentant sigh, I rang the bell for a doctor and lay waiting, insolently nude, not bothering to cover up. He’d be wanting to look at everything anyway. 

***

Having received confirmation from the Gelaming doctor that I was not seriously injured-- along with a stern lecture on the merits of self-restraint-- I was left, again, to myself. 

Now that the lust had been cleared from my mind, it was no longer such an inviting place. Fantasies had faded. There were only hard questions and bitter memories. I hoped that the books and music I had asked for might be brought to me soon, to give me relief; but I feared that after my antics of this afternoon, my jailer might have conveniently forgotten my requests. That would be only natural. If I wanted luxuries I should probably try behaving better. 

I swore under my breath, resenting my situation. True, my own actions had put me here, but I am not a good patient or prisoner. Compliance is simply not part of my nature. 

Into my head came a tentative voice, a careful mindtouch.

_ Ponclast? _

It was Abrimel. I knew at once. Everything I had discussed with Gesaril flashed immediately through my mind, but along with all that sound advice came stormy emotions. Resentment. Abandonment. Betrayal. The urge to punish. At first I wanted to give him nothing but my silence. 

_ Ponclast?  _

There he was again. It would be wrong of me to ignore him. 

_ Bree,  _ I sent back. 

Along with his words, I received his relief, overwhelming and nigh hysterical.  _ Thank Ag! I’ve been frantic. _

Of course he had. That was understandable. I shouldn’t feel angry at him for the ways he fretted and fussed. It was because he loved me, little as I deserved it. It set my fucking teeth on edge. What could I say to him?

_ I’m all right.  _ It was all he wanted to hear. It was the least I could give him, and also, probably, the most. I was bone tired. 

_ I am too,  _ he told me, though I hadn’t asked. I should’ve.  _ They say they took the listeners off me, Pon. Can you tell? _

Pon. I hated that. It made me feel diminished. Worse, it made me feel that my real name was too terrifying to pronounce. I’ve always thought Bree was a bit of a coward. It’s what I like least about him. Still, it wouldn’t do to meditate on his shortcomings just now. I had hurt him enough. He was asking such a small thing. I could do it. I shut my eyes and sent out my mind, searching.

_ They’re really gone,  _ I said,  _ as far as I can tell. I am still monitored, however. _

_ Of course,  _ he said sadly. With my eyes closed I could almost see him standing before me, his long hair loose and his face bare of cosmetics. His eyes looked tired, puffy from weeping.  _ I want to see you,  _ he said.  _ It’s all I want.  _

I shrank from that. Perhaps, in this case, I was a coward too.  _ I see. _

_ Can I?  _

I could probably hide behind doctors. I could claim they wouldn’t let me see anyhar. But that would be craven, and it would be mortifying if he discovered my lie.  _ I don’t know if I’m ready,  _ I said. 

There was quiet. Then:  _ Are you angry with me? _

Yes.  _ No,  _ I sent back.

_ Then why?  _ I could feel his anguish. He was reaching for me with all of his being, his spirit grasping and clawing for me. I wanted to run from it. 

I had hurt him enough. I didn’t want to hurt him more. But also, I didn’t know how to stop. That’s why I was afraid. That was why I wasn’t ready. If I told him as much, if I simply said ‘I am afraid I will hurt you,’ he would ignore me. He’d come to me with open arms, defenses down, ready to get wounded again. If I told him I was feeling too unwell, he’d fret himself into an early grave. If I got nasty and told him to fuck off, I’d be confirming every har’s low opinion of me. 

_ I just need some time,  _ I said at last,  _ to figure myself out.  _ Was that better, or worst of all? My father’s voice echoed in me. I overheard him saying something like that to my mother, after she discovered the affair. I wasn’t supposed to know about that either. Would Bree think I was trying to break things off with him? Was I?

_ I understand,  _ he said, though I knew he didn’t at all. I could feel his bitterness. I’d broken his heart again. 

I didn’t know what else to say. I could have said ‘I love you’ but I didn’t think he’d believe me. It would ring so hollow, just now. 

_ Goodnight, Bree,  _ I said at last. _ Be well.  _

_ Goodnight,  _ he replied, and I could tell that whenever he was, he was already crying. 


	5. Chapter 5

**PONCLAST**

The records and books arrived with my dinner. With them came the Tigron, and also, another har I recognized. I stared at Pellaz’s companion. Fine bones, auburn hair, yellow eyes-- it was not a face easily forgotten, even though the last time I’d seen it, it had been smeared with blood and white paint. He was clean now, and looked quite cultured, perhaps even domesticated. He wore robes in the Gelaming style, and his hair was neatly plaited down his back. It didn’t matter. I would have known those wolf-eyes anywhere. 

“Ponclast,” said Pellaz, “This is Tava-edzen.” 

“I don’t know what a Tava-edzen is supposed to be,” I replied, “But that is Manticker the Seventy.”

Manticker-- Tava?-- smiled sourly. 

“We can all change our names,” he said, “Jarad.”

It was my turn to wince. Pellaz looked between us curiously. He did not know about Jarad. I had hoped to keep it that way. 

“Point taken,” I said through my teeth. 

“May we join you for dinner?” Pellaz asked. 

Staff hara had been busily setting my desk as a table for three. Blessedly, the Gelaming did not serve what I had previously thought of as hospital food. I saw plates laden with bloody-rare steak, delicately fried potatoes, and fragrant greens of some kind. Fit for a Tigron-- apparently quite literally. 

“I doubt I could stop you,” I said.

Pellaz shrugged. “You can’t,” he admitted, “But I thought you might enjoy it more if given the opportunity to play the gracious host.” 

“You find me ungracious? I am wounded to the quick,” I sneered. Still, I bad-temperedly sat down and gestured to them to take their places at ‘my’ table. “Put on the Rite of Spring,” I instructed one of the staff hara, who was about to make himself scarce. 

It turned out he was second generation, and had no idea what to do with a turntable. I couldn’t fault him. Even some first gens are unfamiliar with vinyl. It was already an old medium by the time of the collapse. Apparently the Gelaming now recorded music on fucking crystals. I got up and showed the flustered orderly how to work the record player. Once he got over flinching away from me, he seemed to find it quite fascinating. I told him he could come back and play with it any time, so long as he always knocked first. In response to this (probably most sinister-sounding) invitation, he stammered a surprised “thank you, Tiahaar.”

“I promise not to eat you,” I said sardonically. “I’m like a captive lion. They keep me well-fed so I don’t turn on my keepers.”

I turned back to the table to find Pellaz and Tava regarding me speculatively, and with seemed to be amusement. 

“What?” I snapped. I resumed my place at the table and dug in to my steak, while the turntable subjected my guests to the torturous strains of Stravinsky. 

“Here we are,” I said to ‘Tava,’ “A couple of war criminals dining with the illustrious Tigron.”

Tava regarded me calmly from across the table. I don’t think I’d ever seen him calm before. When he was Manticker, he’d been rabid, Dionysian, half-satyr and half-maenad. He had seemed to exist in a state of perpetual blood-drunk ecstasy. 

“Quite,” he said drily, and skewered a piece of potato on his fork. 

I cupped my chin in my hand and leaned on it, elbows on the table. “I know why I’m here. Why are you?”

Pellaz cleared his throat awkwardly. “I thought perhaps we could exchange some pleasantries before getting to more serious business.”

I glanced from Pellaz to Manticker and back again. “Oh, it’s serious, is it?” I asked archly. 

Pellaz sighed at me. He was wearing maroon velvet. It looked good on him, like everything did. Gold bands circled the long, thick braid that he wore draped over his shoulder like a ceremonial sash. “How are you, Ponclast?”

I laughed. “Fine.”

“The doctors say you’re healing,” Pellaz remarked, “And your therapist thinks you’re making progress.”

“After this afternoon?” I asked incredulously. 

Pellaz shrugged with one shoulder, and sipped at his wine. “Gesaril thinks you’re improving. Anders is less convinced, but then again, he is not a psychiatric professional.”

I thought about telling Pellaz about Anders. I doubted he’d disclosed our shared past. I didn’t think guarding me was necessarily good for him. I could probably have him taken off his post right now, with just a few words. I pondered. Would it be the right thing to do? Something made me keep silent. It wasn’t my call. Anders could decide for himself what was good and bad for him, and even if he was wrong about it, well, that was his right.

“I regret causing him alarm,” I said instead. “It was basically a misunderstanding.”

“I know,” Pellaz returned, “But in the future, try not to throw things.”

Manticker— I wasn’t calling him Tava, dammit— laughed throatily. “For some of us, it’s a difficult habit to break.”

I felt a strange warmth flare in my chest. What was this— empathy? Connectivity? I turned to him. “How did you do it?”

He sat back, watching me with those lupine eyes. “I did it in degrees,” he said. “First I stopped throwing things  _ at _ hara. Then I only smashed things when nohar was around. Sometimes I still do that, truth be told. But these days I try to avoid it. A lot of my possessions are hard to replace. Where I live, commodities are not so easily available as they are in Immanion.” He smiled. “If I broke my ashtray, somehar would have to whittle me a new one.”

Despite myself, I was fascinated. Here was Manticker, the Mankiller, the scourge of the West, a changed har—clean, well-dressed, and fit for polite company. More astounding, he was allegedly master of his temper.  _ Is this what hope feels like? _

“What do you do instead?” I asked.

He cocked his head. “I breathe deep. I count to ten. I do all those things I used to think were nonsense. I meditate a lot. And I allow myself a healthy outlet for aggression.”

“Which is?” I asked. 

“Hunting.” He pronounced the word with pride and genuine pleasure. “My people—the Nezreka—practice the way of the Wolf. They aren’t such vicious animals as hara think. They cooperate. They are loyal to their packs. And they have equilibrium with their surroundings.”

I thought of the wolf’s head helmets the Varrs used to wear. “So you’re the alpha?”

He smiled more broadly, and helped himself to more wine. “Actually,” he said, “that hierarchical structure only exists among wolves in captivity. In the wild, power is more defuse among them. The pack is more like a family unit than anything—a remarkably healthy and loving family unit, at that.”

I digested this, chewing on a piece of steak. Clearly Manticker had gone the way of Wraxilan—changing his name, adopting an ascetic lifestyle and a rigid spiritual discipline. In Shaa Lemul, I often thought such an existence might have an appeal, if ever I was allowed to return to earth. But now that I was back, I knew that a life of withdrawal and abstention could never be for me. And I would never change my name again. Ponclast was a title that had been given to me, by a disembodied voice, the very night Manticker fell...

“Seen ‘Ariaric’ lately?” I asked. 

Manticker flinched. “I admit that I am not quite ready for that reunion.”

I sipped from my cup. I had been given only water. I wasn’t to be trusted with intoxicants yet. I couldn’t blame them for their caution. 

“There’s something you don’t know,” I said. It came out quite suddenly. Pellaz and Manticker both looked at me. Did I really want to disclose this, here, now? Well, why not?

“The knife,” I said to Manticker. “I threw it.”

His brows lifted. He wasn’t angry. Somehow, I hadn’t expected him to be. 

“Interesting,” he said. “On Wraxilan’s orders?”

I shook my head. “No. Yet not on my own volition, either. You know I’d take credit, if it had been my idea.” I drew a bracing breath. “There was a voice in my head that night— aspirit, a presence. It said a few things to me. And it made me throw the knife. In fact, it was more like it threw the knife, using my body.”

Pellaz leaned forward. “This was the night of Tava’s conflict with Ariaric?”

“Manticker and Wraxilan,” I corrected. “That’s who they were then.”

‘Tava’ nodded agreement. “What did the voice say to you?”

I had never forgotten the words. I recited them verbatim:

“‘You are Ponclast. You always have been. Own the name, and bring it to our history.’”

After this, there was a ringing silence.

“It gave you your name,” Manticker said.

“What was it?” Pellaz asked. “Who?”

I shrugged. “The voice? For awhile I thought it was Thiede. I don’t think so anymore.”

“Hashmal?” Pellaz suggested.

I snorted. “The Hashmallim saw me as a pitiful pawn. They would never, ever, have alluded to me earning a place in  _ their _ history.” 

Pellaz looked bewildered. “Then who?”

“Who indeed?” I echoed drily. “My Holy Guardian Angel, perhaps?” 

The Tigron frowned, as if in disapproval of my flippancy. Manticker, though, nodded thoughtfully. 

“Higher self, true will— perhaps,” he allowed. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he did not appear to come to a conclusion. “Thank you for telling me, anyway. The matter of the knife had been bothering me for some time. It’s good to know it was not deliberate treachery on Ariaric’s part.” He smiled. “I knew there was a reason I felt compelled to come visit.”

I cleared my throat, and sat back. “Yes, to return to an earlier subject: why  _ are _ you here?” 

Pellaz twitched uncomfortably. I couldn’t help but feel he didn’t really need to be here. He was only in the way, like a hovering chaperone. 

Manticker was not the least bit discomforted by my directness. “I was in town,” he replied easily, “Visiting Darquiel.”

Of course. I was not the only famous monster to have snared a Tigron’s son. “I met Darquiel briefly. Charming har,” I remarked.

Manticker flashed a grin. “Really? He didn’t mention. That must have been interesting.”

Pellaz, who had been present at said meeting, winced at the memory. I chuckled.

“I thought it went quite well, all things considered. He shook my hand and said ‘you wanted to eat me!’ and burst out laughing as if it was the funniest thing he could imagine. Frankly, I could see the humor in it.” I sipped at my water. “I was surprised and impressed that he could too.”

Pellaz said sharply, “I still don’t find it funny, and I doubt Caeru does either.”

I paused, about to carve another piece from my steak. “Just because it’s absurd doesn’t mean it wasn’t also barbaric. The two go together more often than not, in my experience.”

“Hmph,” said Pellaz.

“Darquiel is a remarkable har in that he rarely holds a grudge,” said Manticker, with a fond gleam in his eyes. “Sometimes he takes it almost to a fault.”

Chastened, I looked down and pushed my food around on the plate. An awkward silence ensued. 

“So you were in Immanion to see your chesnari and thought you’d drop by?” I asked finally. 

Manticker flicked a glance at Pellaz. “Not precisely. The Tigron asked me for a favor.”

Pellaz shifted in his seat as if embarrassed, and I thought:  _ we are finally coming to the meat of it. _

“What favor?” I demanded. 

Manticker smiled. His teeth were very white and I noticed that his canines appeared abnormally sharp. “He told me your care team has had difficulty finding you an arunic healer, and asked if I could assist.”

I sat still for a moment, frozen in my chair. I became aware that my pulse was racing. My face felt hot, and my hands, very cold. 

“I see,” I said. I felt ambushed, cornered. My emotions were archetypal and somehow not of me. They belonged to young girls given in arranged marriages, to decent women broadsided by indecent propositions. 

Pellaz cleared his throat. “That is, if it would be agreeable to you, Ponclast,” he said.

His asking my consent somehow made it all worse. I was going to have to say right here at this dinner table whether I would allow this har to roon me. I evaded. “I need healing, and hara aren’t exactly lining up for the job. I don’t see what choice I have.”

Pellaz’s exquisite brows arched. “You have all the choice in the world. It’s true you need healing, but it  _ can _ be done without aruna. And I’m sure, given time, we can find you somehar else. You don’t have to submit to this.”

His eyes slid away from mine. There was something he wasn’t telling me. Manticker cleared his throat. 

“That’s not  _ exactly _ what you said before, Pellaz.”

I placed my hands on the table and glared at both of them. 

“I need all of the information,” I said. “Now.”

Pellaz sighed and gave Manticker a look that said:  _ now you’ve done it. _

“I didn’t want to raise false hopes,” he began. 

“I’m a grown har,” I snapped, “I can take it.”

Pellaz rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose. He looked as if he had a headache. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. “Fine,” he said. “Dr. Sheeva believes that, with prompt arunic healing, you may be able to preserve fertility.”

I sat stunned. 

“You told me I would never host again!” I accused, once I found my voice. 

“It was an initial prognosis,” Pellaz said defensively. “I told you what Sheeva told me.”

I laughed harshly, slowly shaking my head in disbelief. “Probably he just hoped it was true,” I said to Manticker. “Too many sons of Ponclast running around already, in his exalted opinion.”

“Your contribution to the gene pool has been rather disproportionate,” Pellaz shot back, finally flaring. “Let us hope none of your predilections are hereditary.”

“The Gelaming preoccupation with eugenics continues to rival that of the Varrs,” I remarked to Manticker.

Pellaz stood, pushing back his chair. “I’m done here,” he snapped. “There are other places I need to be. Tava, are you coming?”

Manticker shook his head. “No, I’ll stay, if Ponclast doesn’t mind. I’d like to catch up more.”

Pellaz nodded curtly. “Security is just outside the door,” he reminded us, and swept from the room. The door banged closed behind him.

Manticker smiled wryly at me. “You should cut him some slack,” he said. “He’s really sticking his neck out for you, politically.”

I knew damn well that was true. I ought to be properly grateful.

“You’re right,” I admitted. “I guess you could say we’ve never gotten along.” 

Manticker laughed. “You’re a master of understatement.” 

I shrugged irritably. “Two wars aside, I’ve never liked him. I think he’s a sanctimonious prick.” 

Manticker flashed a grin. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said, “But you should give yourself a chance to see him a different way. He may surprise you.”

I could tell it was a kindly meant suggestion, and maybe even a good one, but it still rankled. It seemed like hara were always telling me what I should feel; probably because I never manage to feel the right things at the right moments. Kindness makes me itchy. Cruelty is comfortable and expected. Moments of peace provoke restlessness. I am most at home in the eye of the storm, finding my serenity in the midst of deadly crisis. 

“Let’s not talk about Pellaz,” I said. “In fact, let’s not talk.” 

I rose and began to undo my tie. Manticker raised his brows at me. 

“Your attitude seems to have changed,” he said drily. 

I shrugged off my coat and draped it, with my tie, neatly over the back of my chair. Then I started to work on the buttons on my shirt. “I want to host again,” I said, “And you look a lot more appealing when you aren’t sitting next to the Tigron.” 

“I can’t tell if that was an insult or a compliment,” said Manticker.

I hadn’t intended it to be either. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply that Pellaz outshines you or makes you look plain by comparison. I only meant that his very presence depresses my libido.”

“Ah.” Manticker watched as I continued to unbutton my shirt, but made no move to undress himself. “Are you sure this is what you want to be doing?” He asked, in a moment. 

I was stripped to the waist now, and busy unbuckling my belt. “I want more sons,” I said. 

“Some other har could host,” he pointed out. 

I scowled. “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” I kicked off my boots, slid down my trousers and underwear at once, and stood before him bare. I was neither soume nor ouana yet, in no particular state of arousal. That made me feel like I had control. I arched my brows at him, flicked my hair over my shoulder, and made my way to the bed. There I lay down and spread my legs.

“Well,” I said, “We may as well get it over with.” 

Manticker finally stood and moved towards me. Something had changed in him. There was a feral grace his motions. He stopped by the bedside and stared down at me, his intense yellow eyes boring into my soul. 

“Is it easier for you, if you feel nothing?” He asked. His tone was mild, merely curious. 

I shrugged with one shoulder. My fingers were between my legs, massaging the outer lips of my reticent soume-lam, trying to get it to flower. 

“You’re going to have to feel,” he warned. 

“It’s just healing,” I said, “Not sex.” 

He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “No,” he said. “It is, inevitably, both. You need to be OK with that, or else we can’t do this.” 

My fingers ceased their repetitive motions. Desire was a distant dream. He was just trying to be ethical. I knew that, but I hated it. It made me feel coddled and desexualized. 

“I don’t care,” I muttered. “Just take me.” 

A savage gleam lit his eye, a hint of understanding. He was Uigenna once. Once, in fact, he was Uigenna itself, as I had been Varr itself. He understood this game as well as I. 

He crouched down by the bedside to look me directly in the face. He was like a predator poised to spring. 

“Is that what you want,” he asked, in a soft, mocking tone, “For me to  _ just take you _ ?” 

I grew hot in the face, and also, between the legs. Finally. “Yes,” I replied. My voice was a little husky, but I refused to shrink from his gaze.

He grinned, showing all his teeth. A little bit of the madness had come back into him. The bed creaked as he lowered himself onto me. I felt the heat and the weight of him, and shut my eyes. 

“I’ll have to be gentle,” he said in my ear. “You’ll hate that, won’t you?” 

Sweet shame, to be seen through like this. My ‘lam slickened still more at his words. “Yes,” I whispered.

His tongue traced a long line up my throat, and I shuddered. It had been so long since I’d been touched like this. I’d known I needed it, but not how badly. I supposed my ill-starred adventure with the dilator that afternoon should have given me insight. It hadn’t. To be penetrated is merely a mechanical thing. To be wanted… _ that _ was what I had been starving for. 

He stood up for a moment to shed his robe, and what little he wore under it. Naked he was magnificent, and no longer the least bit civilized. He was a wild, raw thing, his body lean and wiry with muscle. He was becoming ouana, his ‘lim extending from his body like a thick, curious serpent, curving upward as it lengthened. It was a remarkably substantial tool—worryingly substantial, given my current condition.

“I fear you may be… overqualified, for this job,” I said. 

Manticker turned to me. His yellow eyes almost glowed. For a moment, he didn’t seem to understand me. Then he laughed. 

“I can be very careful,” he said. “We can go slowly. But if you’d rather not, having seen my, uh, credentials…”

In spite of my concern, my mouth was watering, and my ‘lam was drooling down my thighs. I wanted that thing in me. I imagined it sliding slowly in, every inch of its cruel, punishing length parting my flesh until it pierced me to the core. The thought made me weak in the knees.

“I trust you have the experience to operate it safely,” I said, in a voice that barely shook.

Manticker smiled warmly and climbed atop me again. His chest pressed against mine, flat against flat, yet in that moment I felt that I was every bit a woman and he was completely and totally a man. Just minutes earlier it had seemed the other way around—I in my suit, he in his flowing garments. 

I suppose I’ve never really gotten used to the instability of being har. 

“Breathe deep with me,” he said, and his lips closed over mine. We shared breath—not memories, just energy. Soothing green light seemed to pour into me through his mouth. His fingers traced the sigil ara on my lower belly: ara, for opening. I felt myself relaxing, and my soume-lam abandoned the last of its resistance with a gush.

The red-hot tip of his lim pressed into my entrance. I gasped and arched my neck. 

“Keep breathing,” he mumbled into my mouth. 

As he slid further in, delicious warmth spread through my abdomen, healing power pulsing through my flesh. He was penetrating me not only with his ‘lim, but with his magic as well. I melted under him.

Deeper, deeper, he moved steadily and slowly. I felt every twitch and throb of his ouana-lim. There was no pain. Nothing was tearing, I was sure of it. I spread my legs wider, pulled up my knees and braced my feet flat against the bed so I could lift my hips and invite him further in.

It was such a long, slow plunge. It seemed to take hours for him to reach the heart of me. Each sikra opened effortlessly for him as he pushed past. My nerves were on fire. I was shaking, afraid I would weep for lust. Finally, finally, I felt his head come to rest against the seventh sikra, his ouana-tongue penetrate it. I threw my arms around his lean back and screamed against his shoulder. 

“Shh,” he whispered in my ear. “Lie still. Be good.” His voice was soothing and threatening at once. It reminded me of a voice, and of words, that I had used with some of my victims. In my case, the reassurance had been a mockery and the threat had been real. Here it was just the opposite. I flushed at being spoken to so, and more as his hands encircled my wrists, pinning them to the bed. His tongue filled my mouth and stifled my noise of surprise and protest. 

I needed him to thrust in me, needed to be  _ fucked _ , but he just stayed still. It was excruciating torture. The only movements were the throb of his ‘lim and the desperate clenching of my lam. In a few moments, I became aware of another kind of motion, that of the agmara in my body. It pulsed in my core, first slowly, then with increasing rapidity. I realized, with a mixture of exhilaration and horror, that the convulsions of my cunt were accelerating along with it. I was about to cum from this.

The pleasure started deep within and washed over my whole body, like ripples on a pool. It was gentle—or at least, the first one was. The orgasm didn’t stop. No sooner had it begun to fade than another, more intense climax overtook me. I tried to thrash but Manticker’s grip on my wrists tightened, and in my current state I lacked the strength or the will to fight him. I groaned in helpless ecstasy, painfully aware that Anders was just outside the door. Now he knew what I sounded like when I was getting rooned. The thought was both mortifying and arousing. 

“Fuck me,” I snarled breathlessly, brokenly. “Fuck me, you son of a bitch.” 

Manticker growled in my ear and bit me hard on the side of my neck to shut me up. I hissed in pain, and then another rush of pleasure rolled over me, taking away my breath.

I don’t know how long it went on like that. I lost track of time, helpless beneath him, the primeval monster of Wraeththu. I may have been worse, but he was first, and so submitting to him felt not only right but inevitable. 

After Ag only knows how many other orgasms, I found myself reduced to mewling and clawing weakly at his back—he’d let go my wrists at some point, probably realizing my strength had abandoned me. “Please,” I was whimpering, “please, please, please,” all the while disgusted with myself because I do not beg.

He pulled out of me. His ‘lim was still stiff. There was a lordly smirk on his lips as he stood up.

“You’ve been good,” he told me. I sensed this was the tone he’d used with his Uigenna underlings, his ‘roons’ who he used to remind them of their place. I had never been one of them. I was too far down the pecking order.

I couldn’t say anything. I just lay there gasping like a beached fish, staring up at him.

“You want something rougher,” he said, “something degrading. You need to feel abused to be satisfied.”

I curled up into myself, pulling my knees towards my chest. After some moments had passed and my need had not abated, I nodded resentfully. 

“I healed you well,” he said, “but not all that well. Your ‘lam needs more work before it can take a real pounding. You’ll just have to finish me with your throat.”

I flushed with anger, shame, and desire.

“I don’t—” I began.

He held my eyes. “Now you do. Unless, of course, you’d prefer I use my hand.”

I hissed again, and he laughed. 

“All right, then,” he said, “Come here.”

I unwound myself from the sheets, slithered to the floor, and, Ag help me, crawled to him on my hands and knees. I missed my long hair now. My body felt so exposed. It made me burn with shame to feel him looking down on me. 

“Good,” he purred. He took my face between his hands and pulled me up to kneeling. Still smirking down at me, he gently stroked the short stubble on the side of my head, then made a fist in the long part of my hair, and pulled me to him. 

My mouth was closed. He shoved my face against his shaft, and forced me to nuzzle against it. It was hot and velvety and wet from me. 

“Jarad,” he said. “So pretty.”

My eyes were stinging. “Fuck you, Manticker,” I choked. 

He chuckled. “I’ll say your name when you say mine.” His fingers twisted in my hair, tightening his grip. “Oh, I forgot. Your mouth will be full.”

I was shaking. I wanted to punch him in the stomach and walk away. But I needed to feel him use me. My cunt was not available. I’d almost rather he have sodomized me, but that was too close to the damaged area. There was no alternative. 

“I’m only treating you this way because I think it’s what you want,” he said. 

That made the humiliation all the worse. But if I didn’t submit, he might go back to being gentle, or worse, stop altogether. 

I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. I lipped at him tentatively, licked furtively along the shaft.He tasted of me. It made me ache. Growing in hunger and boldness, I slid my mouth all the way up the shaft and took the head in my mouth. He gave a deep sigh of pleasure. 

“That’s right,” he said. 

It was so degrading to have my mouth filled, to be without the use of speech. I felt like a whore, but that made me drip. He pushed me down, again the slow deep plunge, but this one much more treacherous. It made me gag, and my eyes watered. He held me down until I was afraid I would actually vomit and felt like I couldn’t breathe, then let me come up and gasp briefly for air before forcing me down again.

“You weren’t lying,” he said, “you really don’t do this much.” 

Was he saying I was unskilled? I blushed furiously and redoubled my efforts. He went a little easier on me, letting me learn. “Watch the teeth,” he said once, and I obediently wrapped my lips over them. When I settled into a rhythm, he started to fuck my mouth—shallowly, to spare my sensitive gag reflex. I choked anyway and drooled all over him, hating and loving it at the same time. My hands crept worshipfully up his body, caressing the fronts of his thighs, then the backs, cupping the firm curves of his ass, and then allowing my fingertips to wander to his hard belly.

He suddenly pulled away from me and staggered back. I fell back on my heels, panting and totally confused. His shoulders were shaking and the look in his eyes had changed—now he was a hunted wolf, full of pain and panic. His hands clutched at his abdomen protectively.

I realized all at once what had happened and what I had done. The scar. I must have touched the scar from the knife that had almost killed him—from when  _ I _ had almost killed him. Now, by the look of it, he had plunged into a flashback, with full color and surround sound.

I knew exactly what to do. I stood and walked calmly toward him. He retreated from me until he was pressed to the wall. “Stay back,” he rasped. 

“Manticker,” I started, then shook my head and tried again. “Tava. Tava-edzen. You are safe right now. You are in Immanion. That wound healed years ago.”

He was breathing hard, and his expression did not register comprehension. In his mind, he was bleeding out again. I kept talking. 

“I have no knives now, Tava. I’m not going to hurt you. We just ate dinner and took aruna together. I was really enjoying it, and I hope you were too, until I accidentally touched that scar. I’m sorry.” 

He made a small sound, and shook himself. His gaze refocused a little. That was good. We were making progress.

“That’s right,” I said. “Look at the room. Look at this fucking room. Pastel walls. Tasteful art. That clock over there is a real antique, by the way. Early-late human, nineteenth century. Just look at this place, Tava. Could anything bad happen here?”

He was smiling shakily by the time I had finished this speech. I judged he had returned, more or less, to the present.

“Have some water,” I said. I went to the table and poured for him. When I turned back to deliver the glass, I saw he had followed me and was standing right there. I handed it to him, and he took it with an unsteady hand. 

“Thanks,” he croaked, having taken a gulp. 

I gestured to a chair. “Want to sit?” 

He nodded, and did. I sat down across from him while he finished the rest of his water. 

“You’re good at that,” he said as he put down the glass. 

I poured myself a water as well. “I picked it up talking down panicked soldiers,” I said. “It’s something any officer should be able to do.”

“Yes,” he smiled, “I thought you had rather a military air. Impressive, considering you’re still covered in drool.”

I winced and swiped at my face with a napkin. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” I said, “and I’m sorry I brought it back.” I was getting good at this apology thing.

He waved a hand in a ‘perish the thought’ gesture. “It was a long time ago, and you weren’t acting on your own volition.”

I nodded in acceptance of this, though I couldn’t help thinking:  _ Manticker was my first victim.  _ Here I sat, across from the first har I had ever really hurt. 

“So,” I said, “I assume the mood is rather spoiled.”

Tava laughed shakily. “Fraid so.” 

I shrugged, trying not to be disappointed, or at least not to look it. “Perfectly understandable,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll come see me again sometime.”

“Perhaps.” His smile seemed forced, and I knew in my heart that he wouldn’t. 

We made awkward small talk until Tava got his land legs back, and then he bade me goodnight and left. I crawled into bed and made sweet love to my right hand until I finally passed out. 

My dreams were all of Oomar, and I woke up tired. 


End file.
